Jniversity  of  Ca] 
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Library  Facili 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


BIGLOW    PAPERS 


BY  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


'  The  top  of  the  hill 
He  will  ne'er  come  nigh  reaching 
Till  he  learns  the  distinction 
Twixt  singing  and  preaching." 


A.  L  BURT  COMPANY,  Publishers 

52-55  Duane  Street,  New  York 


Copyright,  1900,  by  A.  L.  HURT. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

BY 

HENRY  KETCH  AM. 


Lowell's  Poem*. 


PS 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

THE  genius  of  James  Russell  Lowell  places  him  in 
the  front  rank  of  American  poets.  He  is  one  of  the  few 
who  are  read  and  appreciated  on  both  sides  of  the  At 
lantic.  He  made  his  mark  in  his  earliest  published 
volume,  when  he  was  but  twenty-two  years  of  age. 
From  that  time  to  the  end  of  a  long  career  he  grew 
steadily  in  fame.  Nor  did  his  power  wane,  while  his 
literary  form  showed  an  increasing  perfection  of  polish. 

He  was  born  in  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Feb.  22,  1819. 
His  father  was  the  Rev.  Charles  Lowell,  D.D.,  minister 
of  the  West  Church  (Unitarian)  of  Boston,  a  scholar 
of  high  standing  and  author  of  several  devotional 
books.  He  was  descended  from  Percival  Lowell,  who 
came  from  England  in  1639  and  settled  in  Newbury, 
Mass.  The  subject  of  this  sketch  showed  throughout 
life  a  fine  example  of  the  Puritan  conscience,  joined 
with  a  rare  tenderness  of  nature  and  winsomeness  of 
character.  While  he  never  lacked  the  moral  courage 
which  dared  to  stand 

"  in  the  right  with  two  or  three," 

his  nature   and  method   were   gentle   and   persuasive 
rather  than  severe  or  antagonizing. 

He  was  more  than  a  poet.  He  was  symmetrically 
developed  as  a  man  of  letters.  To  his  admirers  he 
was  the  ideal  man  of  letters.  As  such  his  life  was 

vii 


5000937 


viii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

quiet,  and  his  biography  will  record  the  growth  and 
products  of  his  mind  rather  than  external  events  which 
were  never  romantic. 

He  was  graduated  from  Harvard  College  in  1838.  At 
that  time  he  was  class  poet,  but  the  reading  of  the 
poems  was  omitted  from  the  exercises  of  Class  Day 
owing  to  the  unavoidable  absence  of  the  poet.  This 
absence  was  caused  by  the  fact  that  at  just  that  time 
he  happened  to  be  under  suspension  from  the  college. 
His  offence,  however,  was  playful  and  in  no  wise  seri 
ous,  and  his  Alma  Mater  never  ceased  to  do  him  honor 
in  after  years. 

On  leaving  college  Lowell  entered  a  law  office  and 
after  the  usual  preliminary  studies  was,  in  1840,  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar.  He  was,  however,  by  nature  a  man 
of  letters  and  was  unsuited  to  the  peculiar  exactions 
of  the  legal  profession.  One  is  therefore  not  surprised 
thaf,  •'•here  is  no  record  of  his  practice  of  the  law,  but 
there  was  a  tolerably  steady  stream  of  poems,  essays 
and  reviews  flowing  from  his  facile  pen. 

The  first  year  of  his  nominal  law  practice  records  a 
volume  of  poems  (1841)  entitled  "A  Year's  Life."  In 
this  were  evidences  that  he  was  a  true  seer,  a  genuine 
poet.  His  friends  recognized  the  promise  of  a  brilliant 
career,  and  they  were  not  mistaken. 

Two  years  later  he  became  editor  of  a  magazine  of 
which,  however,  only  three  numbers  were  issued.  A 
year  after  that  he  issued  another  volume  of  poems. 

In  this  year,  1844,  he  married  Miss  Maria  White,  of 
Watertown,  Mass.  She  was  a  charming  and  accom 
plished  woman,  possessing  literary  talent  of  no  mean 
order.  To  her  translations  from  the  German  she 
added  original  poems  of  more  than  ordinary  merit. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  j^ 

She  died  in  1853,  and  it  was  her  death  which  elicited 
from  Longfellow  one  of  the  sweetest  and  most  beautiful 
of  all  poems  on  death.  It  is  that  entitled  Two  Angels. 

T  was  at  thy  door,  O  friend,  and  not  at  mine, 
The  angel  with  the  amaranthine  wreath, 

Pausing,  descended,  and,  with  voice  divine, 
Whispered  a  word  that  had  a  sound  like  death. 

Then  fell  upon  the  house  a  sudden  gloom, 
A  shadow  on  those  features  fair  and  thin, 

And  softly,  from  that  hushed  and  darkened  room, 
Two  angels  issued  where  but  one  went  in. 

In  1845  he  published  a  volume  of  essays,  "  Conver 
sations  on  Some  of  the  Poets/'  and  thus  we  see  that  he 
was  permanently  out  of  the  current  of  the  law  and  in 
that  of  literature. 

In  1848  he  published  a  volume  that  contained  what 
have  proved  to  be  two  of  his  most  popular  poems  : 
namely,  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  and  The  Biglow 
Papers. 

In  1851-2  he  made  his  first  trip  to  Europe.  Most 
of  the  time  he  spent  in  Italy,  especially  in  Some  with 
his  friend  W.  W.  Story,  the  famous  sculptor.  In 
1854-5  he  delivered  the  Lowell  Institute  lectures  on 
"  British  Poets." 

The  most  important  event  occurred  that  year  when 
he  was  appointed  professor  of  Belles  Lettres  at  Harvard 
to  succeed  his  distinguished  friend  H.  W.  Longfellow. 
Before  assuming  the  duties  of  the  professorhip  he  spent 
another  year  in  Europe,  chiefly  in  Dresden. 

In  1857  he  married  Miss  Frances  Dunlap  of  Portland, 
Maine. 

When  the  Atlantic  Monthly  was  established  he  was 


X  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

its  first  regular  editor,  and  continued  in  that  work  fol 
about  five  years,  or  from  1857  to  1862.  Relinquishing 
this  he  edited  the  North  American  Review,  then  a  quar 
terly,  for  a  p  eriod,  of  about  ten  years.  In  addition  to 
his  editorial  work  he  contributed  a  large  number  of 
articles  to  this  magazine, — thirty-four  in  all,  not  count 
ing  editorial  notes,  etc.  During  these  fifteen  years  of 
editorship,  while  he  had  also  the  duties  of  professor,  his 
general  literary  work  did  not  lag,  and  he  issued  vol 
umes  both  of  poetry  and  of  prose. 

In  1872-4  he  again  travelled  in  Europe,  receiving  the 
unusual  honors  of  the  degrees  of  D.  C.  L.  from  the 
University  of  Oxford,  and  LL.D.  from  that  of  Cam 
bridge,  England. 

In  1877  he  was  appointed  Minister  to  Spain,  and 
took  up  the  duties  of  a  post  made  illustrious  by 
Irving.  The  lustre  of  the  literary  tradition  suffered 
no  diminution  in  his  incumbency. 

He  was  later  (1880-5)  minister  to  England,  and  it  is 
not  too  much  to  say  that  in  that  difficult  and  exacting 
position  he  stands  second  to  none  of  all  who  have  ever 
served.  His  honest,  stiirdy,  and  outspoken  democracy, 
his  fineness  of  culture,  his  breadth  of  spirit,  and  his 
genial  persuasiveness  have  had  incalculable  influence 
in  promoting  the  friendliness  between  Americans  and 
their  British  cousins.  At  this  time  he  was  honored 
by  being  appointed  Lord  Rector  of  St.  Andrews  Uni 
versity  at  St.  Andrews,  Scotland.  But  he  soon  resigned 
this  position  as  being  incompatible  with  his  obliga 
tions  as  minister  of  the  United  States. 

In  his  later  years  he  published  several  volumes  of 
essays  and  addresses,  the  latter  being  largely  on  pa 
triotic  or  democratic  subjects.  The  excellence  of  their 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  xi 

substance  and  the  finish  of  their  form  entitle  them  to 
a  permanent  place  in  literature.  They  are,  however, 
outside  the  scope  of  this  sketch,  which  concerns  Lowell 
as  a  poet. 

Lowell  was  one  of  a  remarkable  circle  of  literary 
friends,  such  as  has  hardly  existed  before  in  all  his 
tory,  and  certainly  never  in  the  United  States.  His 
friendships  included  Longfellow,  Emerson,  E.  H. 
Dana,  W.  W.  Story,  Fields,  Holmes,  Whittier,  Agas- 
siz,  E.  E.  Hale,  and  others  of  nearly  equal  prominence. 
Such  friendship  greatly  enriched  his  life,  but  it  in  no 
wise  quenched  his  originality  nor  weakened  his  vigor. 

In  looking  over  his  poetical  works  for  a  critical  esti 
mate,  we  find  no  one  poem  which  towers  up  above 
the  rest,  like  Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  Byron's  Childe 
Harold,  or  Wordsworth's  Excursion.  But  there  are 
many  shorter  ones,  each  of  which  is  sufficient  to  justify 
the  high  reputation  which  he  holds  on  both  sides  of 
the  Atlantic.  In  his  first  published  volume,  there  is 
one,  entitled  "  Ode,"  which  must  have  been  written 
when  he  was  little  more  than  a  boy,  which  gave  abun 
dant  evidence  of  his  high  aspiration  and  of  the  earnest 
ness  of  his  spirit.  His  admirers  were  justified  in 
predicting  from  this  poem  a  brilliant  future  for  the 
author,  and  the  result  was  not  disappointing. 

The  Biglow  Papers  are  a  political  satire  upon  the 
Invasion  by  the  United  States  of  Mexico,  the  State  of 
the  Slavery  Question,  etc.  They  are  written  in  the 
Yankee  dialect  verse  by  one  Hosea  Biglow,  Birdofre- 
dum  Sawin,  edited  with  an  introduction,  notes,  glos 
sary,  and  copious  index,  by  Homer  Wilbur,  A.  M., 
pastor  of  the  First  Church  in  Jaalam,  and  (prospec 
tive)  member  of  many  literary,  learned,  and  scientific 


xii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

societies.  These  placed  Lowell  in  the  front  rank  ol 
hnmorists.  They  were  the  first  attempt  to  use  the 
quaint  New  England  dialect  in  verse,  and  they  are 
probably  the  best  imitations  to  be  found  either  in 
poetry  or  in  prose. 

They  were  received  with  favor,  and  their  keen  satire, 
their  quaint  drollery,  their  irresistible  good  humor, 
have  held  them  in  popularity  for  a  half  century.  Po 
litical  opponents  enjoyed  them  hardly  less  than  polit 
ical  friends.  The  experiences  of  the  Bay  State  recruit, 
with  sly  wit,  set  forth  political  questions  and  practices 
in  a  way  to  fill  one  with  laughter.  There  is  an  under 
tone  of  seriousness,  especially  a  hot  hatred  of  slavery 
and  all  its  concomitants,  and  indeed  of  all  injustice. 
But  the  form  is  humorous,  and  they  have  been  called 
an  attempt  to  laugh  down  slavery.  In  the  larger  sense 
of  the  word,  they  are  intensely  patriotic.  They  are 
classic  in  their  way,  and  are  the  only  production  in  the 
English  language  worthy  to  stand  by  the  side  of  Hudi- 
bras.  It  is  this  combination  of  fun  that  bubbles  over 
and  sturdy  morality  which  places  them  on  so  high  a 
plane  both  intellectual  and  ethical.  They  have  held 
their  place  for  fifty  years  and  doubtless  will  hold  it  for 
many  years  to  come. 

A  second  series  of  these  charming  papers  was  called 
out  by  the  Civil  War  of  1861-5.  These  had  not  the 
advantage  of  newness  enjoyed  by  the  first  series,  never 
theless  they  are  worthy  of  their  name  and  do  not  de 
tract  from  the  quality  of  the  whole.  If  there  is  less 
rollicking  fun  in  the  second  series,  there  is  also  more 
poetry.  The  Civil  War  was  nearer  to  the  poet  than  the 
Mexican  War,  and  this  fact  could  not  other  than  influ 
ence  his  writing  even  of  wit,  humor,  and  satire. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

Another  masterly  piece  of  humor  is  the  Fable  for 
Critics,  which  is  no  fable  at  all,  but  a  rhymed  review, 
or  at  least  criticism,  of  some  of  the  more  prominent 
American  writers.  One  after  another  they  pass  under 
his  scrutiny  and  receive  his  criticism  or  characteriza 
tion.  It  is  not  to  be  expected  that  this  poem  should 
have  the  balance  of  the  regular  review,  but  on  the 
whole  its  criticisms  are  just,  while  his  wit  is  as  keen  as 
a  Damascus  blade.  It  is  to  be  noted  that  the  poet  does 
not  spare  himself,  but  raps  his  own  knuckles  quite  as 
hard  as  any. 

There  is  Lowell,  who's  striving  Parnassus  to  climb, 
With  a  whole  bale  of  isms  tied  together  with  rhyme. 

The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come  nigh  reaching 

Till  he  learns  the  distinction  'twixt  singing  and  preaching; 

The  purpose  and  character  of  the  Fable  preclude  the 
usual  finish  of  form,  so  that  it  has  been  called  clever 
doggerel.  But  along  with  its  trenchant  humor  may 
be  discovered  a  manly  vigor,  with  occasional  touches 
of  the  pathos  which  is  rarely  lacking  in  any  of  Lowell's 
poetry,  either  humorous  or  serious,  and  all  joined  by  a 
good  sense  that  bears  the  light  of  day. 

In  1865  Harvard  College  had  a  memorial  service  for 
those  of  her  sons  who  fell  in  the  Civil  War,  and  for 
this  was  written  the  Commemoration  Ode,  whose  stately 
measures  rise  sometimes  to  sublime  heights.  Patriotism 
tinges  much  of  his  poetry,  for  love  of  country  and  of 
freedom  was  a  passion  with  him,  but  in  this  poem  it 
has  a  freer  course  than  elsewhere.  He  touches  the 

ideal  manhood, — 

God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

The  concrete  example  of  this  manhood  is  Lincolc 
"  our  Martyr-Chief."  Then  follows  a  characterization 
of  him  unequalled  certainly  in  poetry,  leading  up  to 
the  climax, — 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 

The  Present  Crisis  is  probably  the  most  quoted  of 
his  poems.  It  was  written  in  December,  1844,  and 
refers  to  one  of  the  many  crises  of  slavery.  It  displays 
the  author's  noble  loyalty  to  Truth  and  his  withering 
scorn  of  evasion  or  temporizing  expedients.  Later  he 
treated  similar  subjects  with  humorous  form  in  the 
Biglow  papers  ;  but  here  he  is  serious  in  form  as  well 
as  earnest  in  thought.  Lord  Bacon  raised  the  ques 
tion  of  "jesting  Pilate."  What  is  Truth?  Lowell 
answers  with  a  clarion  ring  : 

Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold,  Wrong  forever  on  the  throne, — 
Yet  that  scaffold  sways  the  future,  and,  behind  the  dim  un 
known, 

Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  His 
own. 

History  is  to  Lowell  a  divine  revelation,  and  the  crisis 
of  which  he  writes  has  the  solemnity  of  the  Judgment 
Day. 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes  the  moment  to  decide 
In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or  evil 
side. 

This  leads  us  to  speak  of  the  religious  characteristic 
of  the  author's  poetry.  His  poems  are  not  religious  in 
the  same  sense  as  those  of  Cowper.  Possibly  they  are 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  XV 

not  evangelical.  But  they  are  religious  in  the  finest 
sense  of  the  word,  holding  to  an  unshaken  belief  in 
God's  everlasting  righteousness,  with  sweet  confidence 
in  His  overruling  providence,  with  a  profound  belief 
in  the  practical  piety  of  considering  the  poor  and  un 
fortunate,  and  especially  with  broad  sympathy  for 
"  seekers  after  God."  His  "  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal" 
is  a  universal  ^favorite.  It  tells  of  the  quest  of  the 
Holy  Grail,  or  the  cup  which  Our  Lord  blessed  in  the 
Last  Supper.  The  way  the  knight  treats  the  beggai 
on  his  issuing  from  the  castle  and  the  way  he  treats 
him  upon  his  return  from  his  wanderings  present 
a  striking  contrast.  Other  poems  which  may  be 
classed  as  distinctly  religious  are  Parable  (two  by  this 
name)  Ambrose,  Extreme  Unction,  and  The  Cathedral. 
The  Death  of  a  Friend's  Child  may  be"  studied  profit 
ably  by  every  preacher,  and  After  the  Burial  should 
be  mastered  by  every  pastor  for  the  purpose  of  enter 
ing  into  the  experiences  of  others  where  one  so  easily 
misunderstands. 

The  Cathedral  was  originally  entitled  "A  Day  at 
Chartres."  The  reader  can  spend  with  profit  and  de 
light  not  merely  one,  but  many,  days  in  that  poem.  It 
opens  with  a  discussion  of  first  impressions,  then 
describes  the  poet's  overwhelming  impressi  n  of  the 
cathedral.  Within  he  observes  a  solitary  beldam  list 
lessly  counting  her  beads  and  has  at  first  a  scornful 
feeling  towards  her,  which  quickly  gives  place  to  sym 
pathy.  This  leads  to  the  discussion  of  the  various 
Faiths  that  grope  after  God,  and  the  teaching  is  that 
God  is  nearer  than  men  realize.  The  ancient  forms, 
bare  to  the  refined  descendant  of  the  Puritans,  have 
their  uses. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH. 

Be  He  nowhere  else, 
God  is  in  all  that  liberates  and  lifts, 
In  all  that  humbles,  sweetens,  and  consoles. 

The  cathedral  was  built  with  a  sense  of  piety  and 
consecration.  Each  person  came  bringing  his  "vote 
for  God,"  for  such  were  the  stones  built  into  that 
stately  structure.  From  that  work  of  conscience  and 
devotion  the  "  Western  Goth  "  may  learn  that 

nothing  pays  but  God, 

Served  whether  on  the  smoke-shut  battle-field, 
In  work  obscure  done  honestly,  or  vote 
For  truth  unpopular,  or  faith  maintained 
To  ruinous  convictions,  or  good  deeds 
Wrought  for  good's  sake,  mindless  of  heaven  or  hell. 

The  poem  closes  with  witnessing  to  the  universal 
presence  of  God,  and  leaves  the  reader  in  that  frame  of 
solemn  awe  as  if  he  had  shared  the  poet's  own  vision 
and  experience  in  the  aisles  of  that  impressive  cathe 
dral. 

One  further  poem  ought  to  be  mentioned  for  its  del 
icacy  of  thought  and  perfectness  of  finish,  and  that  is 
Auf  WiederseJien. 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art  I 
The  English  words  had  seemed  to  fain, 

But  these — they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 

Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart ; 
She  said,  "  Auf  Wiedersehen  !  " 

Gathering  together  the  impressions  of  this  poet,  we 
find  him  fearless  in  moral  courage,  with  unconquerable 
devotion  to  truth  and  scorn  of  temporizing  expedients, 
with  passionate  love  of  freedom  and  hatred  of  slavery, 
with  broad  philanthropy  and  pervading  piety.  His 
satire  is  clever,  his  imagination  vivid,  his  range  of 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH.  Xvij 

thought  wide,  his  intellectual  grasp  firm,  and  his  ex 
pression  vigorous.  The  introductions  to  the  two  parts 
of  The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  are  models  of  graceful 
and  delicate  fancy  clothed  in  absolute  beauty  of  ex 
pression. 

Lowell's  duties  as  minister  to  England  came  to  an 
end  in  1885.  The  later  years  of  his  life,  however,  were 
well  filled  with  work.  His  residence  was  at  Elmwood, 
Cambridge,  where  for  many  years  he  had  been  near 
neighbor  to  Longfellow.  In  1885  he  had  buried  in 
England  his  wife.  The  solitude  of  his  latest  years  was 
broken  by  frequent  visits  to  England  where  he  had 
many  friends,  while  his  time  was  also  occupied  by  lec 
tures  and  addresses.  He  prepared  his  complete  works 
for  the  press,  so  that  the  public  now  have  them  in  the 
form  which  the  author  would  wish.  His  friend,  Prof. 
Charles  Eliot  Norton,  has  since  published  his  life  and 
letters,  to  which  the  reader  is  referred  for  a  fuller 
knowledge  of  this  rare  man. 

He  died  at  Cambridge,  August  12,  1891.  He  left 
an  added  dignity  to  American  letters.  He  not  only 
received  the  highest  honors  which  his  alma  mater, 
Harvard,  could  give,  but  he  was  decorated  by  the  uni 
versities  of  Glasgow,  Edinburgh,  and  Bologna,  in  addi 
tion  to  Oxford  and  Cambridge  above  mentioned.  To 
him  may  be  applied  the  words  which  he  wrote  to  as 
friend, — 

The  birds  are  hushed,  the  poets  gone 
Where  no  harsh  critic's  lash  can  reach, 

And  still  your  winged  brood  sing  on 
To  all  who  love  our  English  speech. 

HENRY  KETCHAM, 


MELIBCEUS-HIPPONAX. 
THE 

BIGLOW  PAPEKS 


EDITED 


WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION  AND  NOTES 


BY 

HOMER  WILBUR,  A.  M. 

PASTOR  OF  THE    FIRST    CHURCH    IN  JAALAM,   AND   (PROSPECTIVE)    MEMBER  OF 
MANY  LITERARY,   LEARNED  AND  SCIENTIFIC  SOCIETIES 

(for  which  tee  page  v) 


The  ploughman's  whistle,  or  the  trivial  flute, 
Finds  more  respect  than  great  Apollo's  lute. 

Quarles's  Emblems,  B.  n.  E.  8. 

Margaritas,  munde  porcine,  calcasti :  en,  siliquas  accipe. 

Jac.  Car.  Fil.  ad  Pub.  Leg.  §  L 


NOTE  TO  TITLE-PAGE. 


IT  will  not  have  escaped  the  attentive  eye,  that  I 
have,  on  the  title-page,  omitted  those  honorary  ap 
pendages  to  the  editorial  name  which  not  only  add 
greatly  to  the  value  of  every  book,  but  whet  and  ex 
acerbate  the  appetite  of  the  reader.  For  not  only  does 
he  surmise  that  an  honorary  membership  of  literary  and 
scientific  societies  implies  a  certain  amount  of  neces 
sary  distinction  on  the  part  of  the  recipient  of  such 
decorations,  but  he  is  willing  to  trust  himself  more 
entirely  to  an  author  who  writes  under  the  fearful  re 
sponsibility  of  involving  the  reputation  of  such  bodies 
as  the  S.  Archceol.  Daliom.,  or  the  Acad.  Lit.  et  Scient. 
Kamtscliat.  I  cannot  but  think  that  the  early  editions 
of  Shakspeare  and  Milton  would  have  met  with  more 
rapid  and  general  acceptance,  but  for  the  barrenness  of 
their  respective  title-pages  ;  and  I  believe,  that,  even 
now,  a  publisher  of  the  works  of  either  of  those  justly 
distinguished  men  would  find  his  account  in  procuring 
their  admission  to  the  membership  of  learned  bodies  on 
the  Continent, — a  proceeding  no  whit  more  incongruous 
than  the  reversal  of  the  judgment  against  Socrates,  when 
he  was  already  more  than  twenty  centuries  beyond  the 
reach  of  antidotes,  and  when  his  memory  had  acquired 
a  deserved  respectability.  I  conceive  that  it  was  a  feel 
ing  of  the  importance  of  this  precaution  which  induced 
Mr.  Locke  to  style  himself  "  Gent/'  on  the  title-page 
of  his  Essay,  as  who  should  say  to  his  readers  that  they 

3 


4  NOTE  TO  TITLE-PAGE. 

could  receive  his  metaphysics  on  the  honor  of  a  gentle- 
man. 

Nevertheless,  finding,  that,  without  descending  to  a 
smaller  size  of  type  than  would  have  been  compatible 
with  the  dignity  of  the  several  societies  to  be  named,  I 
could  not  compress  my  intended  list  within  the  limits 
of  a  single  page,  and  thinking,  moreover,  that  the  act 
would  carry  with  it  an  air  of  decorous  modesty,  I  have 
chosen  to  take  the  reader  aside,  as  it  were,  into  my 
private  closet,  and  there  not  only  exhibit  to  him  the 
diplomas  which  I  already  possess,  but  also  to  furnish 
him  with  a  prophetic  vision  of  those  which  I  may,  with 
out  undue  presumption,  hope  for,  as  not  beyond  the 
reach  of  human  ambition  and  attainment.  And  I  am 
the  rather  induced  to  this  from  the  fact,  that  my  name 
has  been  unaccountably  dropped  from  the  last  triennial 
catalogue  of  our  beloved  Alma  Mater.  Whether  this  is 
to  be  attributed  to  the  difficulty  of  Latinizing  any  of 
those  honorary  adjuncts  (with  a  complete  list  of  which 
I  took  care  to  furnish  the  proper  persons  nearly  a  year 
beforehand),  or  whether  it  had  its  origin  in  any  more 
culpable  motives,  I  forbear  to  consider  in  this  place, 
the  matter  being  in  course  of  painful  investigation. 
But,  however  this  may  be,  I  felt  the  omission  the  more 
keenly,  as  I  had,  in  expectation  of  the  new  catalogue, 
enriched  the  library  of  the  Jaalam  Athenaeum  with  the 
old  one  then  in  my  possession,  by  which  means  it  has 
come  about  that  my  children  will  be  deprived  of  a 
never-wearying  winter-evening's  amusement  in  looking 
out  the  name  of  their  parent  in  that  distinguished  roll. 

Those  harmless  innocents  had  at  least  committed  no 

but   I   forbear,    having   intrusted   my   reflections   and 
animadversions  on  this  painful  topic  to  the  safe-keeping 


NOTE  TO  TITLE-PAGE.  5 

of  my  private  diary,  intended  for  posthumous  publica 
tion.  I  state  this  fact  here,  in  order  that  certain 
nameless  individuals,  who  are,  perhaps,  overmuch  con 
gratulating  themselves  upon  my  silence,  may  know  that 
a  rod  is  in  pickle  which  the  vigorous  hand  of  a  justly 
incensed  posterity  will  apply  to  their  memories. 

The  careful  reader  will  note,  that,  in  the  list  which 
I  have  prepared,  I  have  included  the  names  of  several 
Cisatlantic  societies  to  which  a  place  is  not  commonly 
assigned  in  processions  of  this  nature.  I  have  ventured 
to  do  this,  not  only  to  encourage  native  ambition  and 
genius,  but  also  because  I  have  never  been  able  to  per 
ceive  in  what  way  distance  (unless  we  suppose  them  at 
the  end  of  a  lever)  could  increase  the  weight  of  learned 
bodies.  As  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  extend  my  re 
searches  among  such  stuffed  specimens  as  occasionally 
reach  America,  I  have  discovered  no  generic  difference 
between  the  antipodal  Fogrum  Japonicum  and  the  F. 
Americanum  sufficiently  common  in  our  own  immediate 
neighborhood.  Yet,  with  a  becoming  deference  to  the 
popular  belief,  that  distinctions  of  this  sort  are  enhanced 
in  value  by  every  additional  mile  they  travel,  I  have  in 
termixed  the  names  of  some  tolerably  distant  literary 
and  other  associations  with  the  rest. 

I  add  here,  also,  an  advertisement,  which,  that  it 
may  be  the  more  readily  understood  by  those  persons 
especially  interested  therein,  I  have  written  in  that 
curtailed  and  otherwise  maltreated  canine  Latin,  to  the 
writing  and  reading  of  which  they  are  accustomed. 

OMNIB.  PER  TOT.  ORB.  TERRAR.  CATALOG.  ACADEM. 
EDD. 

Minim,  gent,  diplom.  ab  inclytiss.  acad.  vest,  orans, 


6  NOTE  TO  TITLE-PAGE. 

vir.  honorand.  operosiss.,  at  sol.  ut  sciat.  quant,  glor. 
nora.  meum  (dipl.  fort,  concess.)  catal.  vest.  temp, 
futur.  afEer.,  ill.  subjec.,  addit.  omnib.  titul.  honorar. 
qu.  adh.  non  tant.  opt.  quam  probab.  put. 

***  Litt.  Uncial,  distinx.  ut  Frees.  S.  Hist.  Nat.  Jaal. 

HOMER  US  WILBUR,  Mr.,  Episc.  Jaalam.  S.  T. 
D.  1850,  et  Yal.  1849,  et  Neo-Caes.  et  Brun.  et  Gnlielm. 
1852,  et  Gul.  et  Mar.  et  Bowd.  et  Georgiop.  et  Viridi- 
mont.  et  Columb.  Nov.  Ebor.  1853,  et  Amherst.  et 
Watervill.  et  S.  Jarlath.  Hib.  et  S.  Mar.  et  S.  Joseph, 
et  S.  Aud.  Scot.  1854,  et  Nashvill.  et  Dart.  et.  Dickins. 
et  Concord,  et  Wash,  et  Columbian,  et  Chariest,  et  Jeff. 
etDubl.  et  Oxon.  et  Cantab,  et  cast.  1855,  P.  U.  N.  C.  H. 
et  J.  U.  D.  Gott.  et  Osnab.  et  Heidelb.  1860,  et 
Acad.  BORE  us.  Berolin.  Soc.  et  SS.  EE.  Lugd.  Bat. 
et  Patav.  et  Lond.  et  Edinb.  et  Ins.  Feejee.  et  Null. 
Terr,  et  Pekin.  Soc.  Hon.  et  S.  H.  S.  et  S.  P.  A.  et  A. 
A.  S.  et  S.  Humb.  Univ.  et  S.  Omn.  Rer.  Quarund.  q. 
Aliar.  Promov.  Passamaqnod.  et  H.  P.  C.  et  I.  0.  H.  et 
A.  A.  0.  et  II.  K.  P.  et  0  B.  K.  et  Peucin,  et  Erosoph. 
et  Philadelph.  et  Frat.  in  Unit,  et  -.  T.  et  S.  Archaeo- 
log.  Athen.  et  Acad.  Scient.  et  Lit.  Panorm.  et  SS.  E. 
H.  Matrit.  et  Beeloochist.  et  Caffrar.  et  Caribb.  et  M. 
S.  Eeg.  Paris,  et  S.  Am.  Antiserv.  Soc.  Hon.  et  P.  D. 
Gott.  et  LL.  D.  1852,  et  D.  C.  L.  et  Mus.  Doc.  Oxon. 
1860,  et  M.  M.  S.  S.  et  M.  D.  1854,  et  Med.  Fac.  Univ. 
Harv.  Soc.  et  S.  pro  Convers.  Pollywog.  Soc.  Hon.  et 
Higgl.  Piggl.  et  LL.  B.  1853,  et  S.  pro  Christianiz. 
Moschet.  Soc.,  et  SS.  Ante-Diluv.  ubiq.  Gent.  Soc. 
Hon.  et  Civit.  Cleric.  Jaalam.  et  S.  pro  Diffus.  Gen 
eral.  Tenebr.  Secret.  Corr. 


NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PEES8. 


[  I  HAVE  observed,  reader,  (bene-  or  male-volent,  as  it 
may  happen,)  that  it  is  customary  to  append  to  the 
second  editions  of  books,  and  to  the  second  works  of 
authors,  short  sentences  commendatory  of  the  first, 
under  the  title  of  Notices  of  the  Press.  These,  I  have 
been  given  to  understand,  are  procurable  at  certain  estab 
lished  rates,  payment  being  made  either  in  money  or  ad 
vertising  patronage  by  the  publisher,  or  by  an  adequate 
outlay  of  servility  on  the  part  of  the  author.  Con 
sidering  these  things  with  myself,  and  also  that  such 
notices  are  neither  intended,  nor  generally  believed,  to 
convey  any  real  opinions,  being  a  purely  ceremonial  ac 
companiment  of  literature,  and  resembling  certificates 
to  the  virtues  of  various  morbiferal  panaceas,  I  con 
ceived  that  it  would  be  not  only  more  economical  to 
prepare  a  sufficient  number  of  such  myself,  but  also 
more  immediately  subservient  to  the  end  in  view  to 
prefix  them  to  this  our  primary  edition  rather  than 
await  the  contingency  of  a  second,  when  they  would 
seem  to  be  of  small  utility.  To  delay  attaching  the 
bobs  until  the  second  attempt  at  flying  the  kite  would 
indicate  but  a  slender  experience  in  that  useful  art. 
Neither  has  it  escaped  my  notice,  nor  failed  to  afford 
me  matter  of  reflection,  that,  when  a  circus  or  a  cara 
van  is  about  to  visit  Jaalam,  the  initial  step  is  to  send 
forward  large  and  highly  ornamented  bills  of  perform- 

7 


8  NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS. 

ance  to  be  hung  in  the  bar-room  and  the  post-office. 
These  having  been  sufficiently  gazed  at,  and  beginning 
to  lose  their  attractiveness  except  for  the  flies,  and, 
truly,  the  boys  also,  (in  whom  I  find  it  impossible  to 
repress,  even  .during  school  hours,  certain  oral  and 
telegraphic  correspondences  concerning  the  expected 
show,)  upon  some  fine  morning  tne  baud  enters  in  a 
gaily-painted  wagon,  or  triumphal  chariot,  and  with 
noisy  advertisement,  by  means  of  brass,  wood,  and 
sheepskin,  makes  the  circuit  of  our  startled  village  streets. 
Then,  as  the  exciting  sounds  draw  nearer  and  nearer,  do 
I  desiderate  those  eyes  of  A-ristarchus,  "  whose  looks 
were  as  a  breeching  to  a  boy."  Then  do  I  perceive, 
with  vain  regret  of  wasted  opportunities,  the  advantage 
of  a  pancratic  or  pantechnic  education,  since  he  is  most 
reverenced  by  my  little  subjects  who  can  throw  the 
cleanest  summerset  or  walk  most  securely  upon  the  re 
volving  cask.  The  story  of  the  Pied  Piper  becomes 
for  the  first  time  credible  to  me,  (albeit  confirmed  by 
the  Hameliners  dating  their  legal  instruments  from  the 
period  of  his  exit,)  as  I  behold  how  those  strains,  with 
out  pretence  of  magical  potency,  bewitch  the  pupillary 
legs,  nor  leave  to  the  pedagogic  an  entire  self-control. 
For  these  reasons,  lest  my  kingly  prerogative  should 
suffer  diminution,  I  prorogue  my  restless  commons, 
whom  I  also  follow  into  the  street,  chiefly  lest  some 
mischief  may  chance  befall  them.  After  the  manner  of 
such  a  band,  I  send  forward  the  following  notices  of 
domestic  manufacture,  to  make  brazen  proclamation, 
not  unconscious  of  the  advantage  which  will  accrue,  if 
our  little  craft,  cymbula  sutilis,  shall  seem  to  leave  port 
with  a  clipping  breeze,  and  to  carry,  in  nautical  phrase, 
a  bone  in  her  mouth.  Nevertheless,  I  have  chosen,  as 


NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS.  9 

being  more  equitable,  to  prepare  some  also  sufficiently 
objurgatory,  that  readers  of  every  taste  may  find  a  dish 
to  their  palate.  I  have  modelled  them  upon  actually 
existing  specimens,  preserved  in  my  own  cabinet  of 
natural  curiosities.  One,  in  particular,  I  had  copied 
with  tolerable  exactness  from  a  notice  of  one  of  my  own 
discourses,  which,  from  its  superior  tone  and  appear 
ance  of  vast  experience,  I  concluded  to  have  been 
written  by  a  man  at  least  three  hundred  years  of  age, 
though  I  recollected  no  existing  instance  of  such  ante 
diluvian  longevity.  Nevertheless,  I  afterward  discov 
ered  the  author  to  be  a  young  gentleman  preparing  for 
the  ministry  under  the  direction  of  one  of  my  brethren 
in  a  neighboring  town,  and  whom  I  had  once  instinc 
tively  corrected  in  a  Latin  quantity.  But  this  I  have 
been  forced  to  omit,  from  its  too  great  length. — H.  W.] 


From  the  Universal  Littery  Universe. 

Full  of  passages  which  rivet  the  attention  of  the  reader. 
.  .  .  Under  a  rustic  garb,  sentiments  are  conveyed  which 
should  be  committed  to  the  memory  and  engraven  on  the 
heart  of  every  moral  and  social  being  .  .  .  We  consider  this 
a  unique  performance  .  .  .  We  hope  to  see  it  soon  introduced 
into  our  common  schools  .  .  .  Mr.  Wilbur  has  performed  his 
duties  as  editor  with  excellent  taste  and  judgment  .  .  .  This 
is  a  vein  which  we  hope  to  see  successfully  prosecuted  .  .  . 
We  hail  the  appearance  of  this  work  as  a  long  stride  toward 
the  formation  of  a  purely  aboriginal,  indigenous,  nati  e  and 
American  literature.  We  rejoice  to  meet  with  an  author 
national  enough  to  break  away  from  the  slavish  deference, 
too  common  among  us,  to  English  grammar  and  orthography 
.  .  .  Where  all  is  so  good,  we  are  at  a  loss  how  to  make  ex 
tracts.  .  .  .  On  the  whole,  we  may  call  it  a  volume  which 
no  library,  pretending  to  entire  completeness,  should  fail  to 
place  upon  its  shelves. 


10          NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS. 
From  the  Higginbottomopolis  Snapping-turtle. 

A  collection  of  the  merest  balderdash  and  doggerel  that  it 
was  ever  our  bad  fortune  to  lay  eyes  on.  The  author  is  a  vul 
gar  buffoon,  and  the'editor  a  talkative,  tedious  old  fool.  We 
use  strong  language,  but  should  any  of  our  readers  peruse  the 
book,  (from  which  calamity  Heaven  preserve  them  !)  they 
will  find  reasons  for  it  thick  as  the  leaves  of  Vallumbrozer, 
or,  to  use  a  still  more  expressive  comparison,  as  the  combined 
heads  of  author  and  editor.  The  work  is  wretchedly  got  up 
.  .  .  We  should  like  to  know  how  much  British  gold  was 
pocketed  by  this  libeller  of  our  country  and  her  purest 
patriots. 


From  the  Oldfogrumville  Mentor. 

We  have  not  had  time  to  do  more  than  glance  through  this 
handsomely  printed  volume,  but  the  name  of  its  respectable 
editor,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Wilbur,  of  Jaalam,  will  afford  a  suffi 
cient  guaranty  for  the  worth  of  its  contents  .  .  .  The  paper 
is  white,  the  type  clear,  and  the  volume  of  a  convenient  and 
attractive  size  ...  In  reading  this  elegantly  executed  work, 
it  has  seemed  to  us  that  a  passage  or  two  might  have  been  re 
trenched  with  advantage,  and  that  the  general  style  of  diction 
was  susceptible  of  a  higher  polish  .  .  .  On  the  whole,  we  may 
safely  leave  the  ungrateful  task  of  criticism  to  the  reader. 
We  will  barely  suggest,  that  in  volumes  intended,  as  this  is, 
for  the  illustration  of  a  provincial  dialect  and  turns  of  expres 
sion,  a  dash  of  humor  or  satire  might  be  thrown  in  with  ad 
vantage  .  .  .  The  work  is  admirably  got  up  ...  This  work 
will  form  an  appropriate  ornament  to  the  centre-table.  It  is 
beautifully  printed,  on  paper  of  an  excellent  quality. 


From  the  Dekay  Bulwark. 

We  should  be  wanting  in  our  duty  as  the  conductor  of  that 
tremendous  engine,  a  public  press,  as  an  American,  and  as  a 
man,  did  we  allow  such  an  opportunity  as  is  presented  to  us 
by  "  The  Biglow  Papers "  to  pass  by  without  entering  our 


NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS.  H 

earnest  protest  against  such  attempts  (now,  alas !  too  com 
mon)  at  demoralizing  the  public  sentiment.  Under  a 
wretched  mask  of  stupid  drollery,  slavery,  war,  the  social 
glass,  and,  in  short,  all  the  valuable  and  time-honored  insti 
tutions  justly  dear  to  our  common  humanity  and  especially 
to  republicans,  are  made  the  butt  of  coarse  and  senseless 
ribaldry  by  this  low-minded  scribbler.  It  is  time  that  the 
respectable  and  religious  portion  of  our  community  should  be 
aroused  to  the  alarming  inroads  of  foreiga  Jacobinism,  sanscu- 
lottism,  and  infidelity.  It  is  a  fearful  proof  of  the  widespread 
nature  of  this  contagion,  that  these  secret  stabs  at  religion 
and  virtue  are  given  from  under  the  cloak  (credite,  posteri  /) 
of  a  clergyman.  It  is  a  mournful  spectacle  indeed  to  the  pa 
triot  and  the  Christian  to  see  liberality  and  new  ideas  (falsely 
so  called, — they  are  as  old  as  Eden)  invading  the  sacred  pre 
cincts  of  the  pulpit  .  .  .  On  the  whole,  we  consider  this  vol 
ume  as  one  of  the  first  shocking  results  which  we  predicted 
would  spring  out  of  the  late  French  "  Revolution  "  (!) 


From  the  Bungtown  Copper  and  Comprehensive  Tocsin  (a  try- 
weakly  family  journal) . 

Altogether  an  admirable  work  .  .  .  Full  of  humor,  boister 
ous,  but  delicate, — of  wit  withering  and  scorching,  yet  com 
bined  with  a  pathos  cool  as  morning  dew, — of  satire  ponder 
ous  as  the  rnace  of  Richard,  yet  keen  as  the  scymitar  of  Sala- 
din  .  .  .  A  work  full  of  "mountain  mirth,"  mischievous  as 
Puck  and  lightsome  as  Ariel  .  .  .  We  know  not  whether  to 
admire  most  the  genial,  fresh,  and  discursive  concinnity  of 
the  author,  or  his  playful  fancy,  weird  imagination,  and  com 
pass  of  style,  at  once  both  objective  and  subjective  .  .  .  We 
might  indulge  in  some  criticisms,  but,  were  the  author  other 
than  he  is,  he  would  be  a  different  being.  As  it  is,  he  has  a 
wonderful  pose,  which  flits  from  flower  to  flower,  and  bears 
the  reader  irresistibly  along  on  its  eagle  pinions  (like  Gany 
mede)  to  the  "  highest  heaven  of  invention."  .  .  .  We  love  a 
book  so  purely  objective  .  .  .  Many  of  his  pictures  of  natural 
scenery  have  an  extraordinary  subjective  clearness  and  fidel- 


12          NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS. 

it}-  ...  In  fine,  we  consider  thi:?  as  one  of  the  most  extraor 
dinary  volumes  of  this  or  any  age.  We  know  of  no  English 
author  who  could  have  written  it.  It  is  a  work  to  which  the 
proud  genius  of  our  country,  standing  with  one  foot  on  the 
Aroostook  and  the  other  on  the  Rio  Grande,  and  holding  up 
the  star-spangled  banner  amid  the  wreck  of  matter  and  the 
crush  of  worlds,  may  point  with  bewildering  scorn  of  the 
punier  efforts  of  enslaved  Europe  .  .  .  We  hope  soon  to  en 
counter  our  author  among  those  higher  walks  of  literature  in 
which  he  is  evidently  capable  of  achieving  enduring  fame. 
Already  we  should  be  inclined  to  assign  him  a  high  position 
in  the  bright  galaxy  of  our  American  bards. 


From  the  Salt  river  Pilot  and  Flay  of  Freedom. 

A  volume  of  bad  grammar  and  worse  taste  .  .  .  While  the 
pieces  here  collected  were  confined  to  their  appropriate 
sphere  in  the  corners  of  obscure  newspapers,  we  considered 
them  wholly  beneath  contempt,  but.  as  the  author  has  chosen 
to  come  forward  in  this  public  manner,  he  must  expect  the 
lash  he  so  richly  merits  .  .  .  Contemptible  slanders  .  .  . 
Vilest  Billingsgate  .  .  .  Has  raked  all  the  gutters  of  oui:  lan 
guage  .  .  .  The  most  pure,  upright,  and  consistent  politicians 
not  safe  from  his  malignant  venom  ".  .  .  General  Cashing 
comes  in  for  a  share  of  his  vile  calumnies  .  .  .  the  Reverend 
Homer  Wilbur  is  a  disgrace  to  his  cloth  .  .  . 


From  tJte  World-Harmonic-^Eolian-Attachinent. 

Speech  is  silver  :  silence  is  golden.  No  utterance  more 
Orphic  than  this.  While,  therefore,  as  highest  author,  \ve 
reverence  him  whose  works  continue  heroically  unwritten, 
we  have  also  our  hopeful  word  for  those  who  with  pen  (from 
wing  of  goose  loud-cackling,  or  seraph  God-commissioned) 
record  the  thing  that  is  revealed  .  .  .  Under  mfi.sk  of 
quaintest  irony,  we  detect  here  the  deep,  storm-tost  (nigh 
shipwrecked)  soul,  thunder-scarred,  semiarticulate,  but  ever 
climbing  hopefully  toward  the  peaceful  summitb  of  uu  In- 


NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS.          13 

finite  Sorrow  .  .  .  Yes,  thou  poor,  forlorn  Hosea,  with  He 
brew  fire-flaming  soul  in  thee,  for  thee  also  this  life  of  ours 
has  not  been  without  its  aspects  of  heavenliest  pity  and  laugh- 
ingest  mirth.  Conceivable  enough  !  Through  coarse  Ther- 
sites-cloak,  we  have  revelation  of  the  heart,  wild-glowing, 
world-clasping,  that  is  in  him.  Bravely  he  grapples  with  the 
life-problem  as  it  presents  itself  to  him,  uncombed,  shaggy, 
careless  of  the  "  nicer  proprieties,"  inexpert  of  "  elegant  dic 
tion,"  yet  with  voice  audible  enough  to  whoso  hath  ears,  up 
there  on  the  gravelly  side-hills,  or  down  on  the  splashy,  India- 
rubber-like  salt-marshes  of  native  Jaalam.  To  this  soul 
also  the  Necessity  of  Creating  somewhat  has  unveiled  its  aw 
ful  front.  If  not  CEdipuses  and  Electras  and  Alcestises,  then 
in  God's  name  Birdofredum  Sawins !  These  also  shall  get 
born  into  the  world,  and  filch  (if  so  need)  a  Zingali  subsist 
ence  therein,  these  lank,  omnivorous  Yankees  of  his.  He 
shall  paint  the  Seen,  since  the  Unseen  will  not  sit  to  him. 
Yet  in  him  also  are  Nibelungen-lays,  and  Iliads,  and  Ulysses- 
wanderings,  and  Divine  Comedies, — if  only  once  he  could 
come  at  them  !  Therein  lies  much,  nay  all;  for  what  truly 
is  this  which  we  name  All,  but  that  which  we  do  not  possess  ? 
.  .  .  Glimpses  also  are  given  us  of  an  old  father  Ezekiel,  not 
without  paternal  pride,  as  is  the  wont  of  such.  A  brown, 
parchment-hided  old  man  of  the  geoponic  or  bucolic  species, 
gray -eyed,  we  fancy,  queued  perhaps,  with  much  weather- 
cunning  and  plentiful  September-gale  memories,  bidding  fair 
in  good  time  to  become  the  Oldest  Inhabitant.  After  such 
hasty  apparition,  he  vanishes  and  is  seen  no  more  .  .  .  Of 
"  Rev.  Homer  Wilbur,  A.  M.,  Pastor  of  the  First  Church  in 
Jaalam,"  we  have  small  care  to  speak  here.  Spare  touch  in 
him  of  his  Melesigenes  namesake,  save  haply,  the — blindness  ! 
A  tolerably  caliginose,  nephelegeretous  elderly  gentleman, 
with  infinite  faculty  of  sermonizing,  muscularized  by  long 
practice,  and  excellent  digestive  apparatus,  and,  for  the  rest, 
well-meaning  enough,  and  with  small  private  illuminations 
(somewhat  tallowy,  it  is  to  be  feared)  of  his  own.  To  him, 
there,  "  Pastor  of  the  First  Church  in  Jaalam,"  our  Hosea 
presents  himself  as  a  quiet  inexplicable  Sphinx-riddle.  A 
rich  poverty  of  Latin  and  Greek, — so  far  is  clear  enough,  even 


14          NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS. 

to  eyes  peering  myopic  through  horn-lensed  editorial  specta 
cles, — but  naught  farther  ?  O  pur-blind,  well-meaning,  alto 
gether  fuscous  Melesigenes-Wilbur,  there  are  things  in  him 
incommunicable  by  stroke  of  birch  !  Did  it  ever  enter  that 
old  bewildered  head  of  thine  that  there  was  the  Possibility  of 
the  Infinite  in  him  ?  To  thee,  quite  wingless  (and  even  feath- 
erless)  biped,  has  not  so  much  even  as  a  dream  of  wings  ever 
come?  "Talented  young  parishioner  "?  Among  the  Arts 
whereof  thou  art  Magister,  does  that  of  seeing  happen  to  be 
one  ?  Unhappy  Artium  Magister  !  Somehow  a  Nemean  lion, 
fulvous,  torrid-eyed,  dry-nursed  in  broad-howling  sand-wil 
dernesses  of  a  sufficiently  rare  spirit-Libya  (it  may  be  supposed) 
has  got  whelped  among  the  sheep.  Already  he  stands  wild- 
glaring,  with  feet  clutching  the  ground  as  with  oak-roots, 
gathering  for  a  Remus-spring  over  the  walls  of  thy  little  fold. 
In  Heaven's  name,  go  not  near  him  with  that  fly-bite  crook 
of  thine !  In  good  time,  thou  painful  preacher,  thou  wilt  go 
to  the  appointed  place  of  departed  Artillery -Election  Sermons, 
Right-Hands  of  Fellowship,  and  Results  of  Councils,  gathered 
to  thy  spiritual  fathers  with  much  Latin  of  the  Epitaphial  sort ; 
thou,  too,  shalt  have  thy  reward  ;  but  on  him  the  Eumenides 
have  looked,  not  Xantippes  of  the  pit,  snake- tressed,  finger- 
threatening,  but  radiantly  calm  as  on  antique  gems  ;  for  him 
paws  impatient  the  winged  courser  of  the  gods,  champing  un 
welcome  bit ;  him  the  starry  deeps,  the  empyrean  glooms, 
and  far-flashing  splendors  await. 


From  the  Onion  Grove  Phwnix. 

A  talented  young  townsman  of  ours,  recently  returned 
from  a  Continental  tour,  and  who  is  already  favorably  known 
to  our  readers  by  his  sprightly  letters  from  abroad  which 
have  graced  our  columns,  called  at  our  office  yesterday.  We 
learn  from  him,  that,  having  enjoyed  the  distinguished  privi 
lege,  while  in  Germany,  of  an  introduction  to  the  celebrated 
Von  Humbug,  he  took  the  opportunity  to  present  that  emi 
nent  man  with  a  copy  of  the  "  Biglow  Papers/'  The  next 
morning  he  received  the  following  note,  which  he  has  kindly 


NOTICES  OP  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS.          15 

furnished  us  for  publication.  We  prefer  to  print  verbatim., 
knowing  that  our  readers  will  readily  forgive  the  few  errors 
into  which  the  illustrious  writer  has  fallen,  through  ignorance 
of  our  language. 

"  HIGH- WORTHY  MISTER  ! 

"  I  shall  also  now  especially  happy  starve,  because  I  have 
more  or  less  a  work  of  one  of  those  aboriginal  Red-Men  seen 
in  which  have  I  so  deaf  an  interest  ever  taken  fullworthy  on 
the  self  shelf  with  our  Gootsched  to  be  upset. 

"  Pardon  my  in  the  English-speech  unpractice  ! 

"  VON  HUMBUG." 

He  also  sent  with  the  above  note  a  copy  of  his  famous  work 
on  "  Cosmetics,"  to  be  presented  to  Mr.  Biglow  ;  but  this  was 
taken  from  our  friend  by  the  English  customhouse  officers, 
probably  through  a  petty  national  spite.  No  doubt,  it  has  by 
this  time  found  its  way  into  the  British  Museum.  We  trust 
this  outrage  will  be  exposed  in  all  our  American  papers.  We 
shall  do  our  best  to  bring  it  to  the  notice  of  the  Sta,te  Depart 
ment.  Our  numerous  readers  will  share  in  the  pleasure  we 
experience  at  seeing  our  young  and  vigorous  national  litera 
ture  thus  encouragingly  patted  on  the  head  by  this  venerable 
and  world-renowned  German.  We  love  to  see  these  reciproca 
tions  of  good-feeling  between  the  different  branches  of  the 
great  Anglo-Saxon  race. 

[The  following  genuine  "notice"  having  met  my 
eye,  I  gladly  insert  a  portion  of  it  here,  the  more  espe 
cially  as  it  contains  a  portion  of  one  of  Mr.  Biglow's 
poems  not  elsewhere  printed. — H.  W.] 


From  the  Jaalam  Independent  Blunderbuss. 

.  .  .  But,  while  we  lament  to  see  our  young  townsman  thus 
mingling  in  the  heated  contests  of  party  politics,  we  think 
we  detect  in  him  the  presence  of  talents  which,  if  properly 
directed,  might  give  an  innocent  pleasure  to  many.  As  a 


16          NOTICES  OF  AN  INDEPENDENT  PRESS. 

proof  that  he  is  competent  to  the  production  of  other  kinds  of 
poetry,  we  copy  for  our  readers  a  short  fragment  of  a  pastoral 
by  him,  the  manuscript  of  which  was  loaned  us  by  a  friend. 
The  title  of  it  is  "  The  Courtin'." 

ZEKLE  crep'  up,  quite  unbeknown, 

An'  peeked  in  thru  the  winder, 
An'  there  sot  Huldy  all  alone, 

'ith  no  one  nigh  to  hender. 

Agin'  the  chimbly  crooknecks  hung, 

An'  in  amongst  'em  rusted 
The  old  queen's  arm  thet  gran'ther  Young 

Fetched  back  frum  Concord  busted. 

The  wannut  logs  shot  sparkles  out 

Toward  the  pootiest,  bless  her  ! 
An'  leetle  fires  danced  all  about 

The  chiny  on  the  dresser. 

The  very  room,  coz  she  wuz  in, 

Looked  warm  frum  floor  to  ceilin', 

An'  she  looked  full  ez  rosy  agin 
Ez  th'  apples  she  wuz  peelin'. 

She  heerd  a  foot  an'  knowed  it,  tu, 

Araspin'  on  the  scraper, — 
All  ways  to  once  her  feelins  flew 

Like  sparks  in  burnt-up  paper. 

He  kin'  o'  1'itered  on  the  mat, 

Some  doubtfle  o'  the  seekle  ; 
His  heart  kep'  goin'  pity  pat, 

But  hern  went  pity  Zekle. 


SATIS  mnltis  sese  emptores  futures  libri  professis, 
Georgius  Nichols,  Cantabrigiensis,  opus  emittet  de 
parte  gravi  sed  adhuc  neglecta  historiae  naturalis,  cum 
titulo  sequent!,  videlicet  : 

Conatus  ad  Dehneationem  naturalem  nonnihil  per- 
fectiorem  Scarabcei  Bombilatoris,  vulgo  dicti  HUMBUG, 
ab  HOMERO  WILBUR,  Artium  Magistro,  Societatis  his- 
torico-naturalis  Jaalamensis  Praeside,  (Secretario,  So- 
cioque  (eheu  !)  singulo,)  multarumque  aliarum  Societa- 
tum  eruditarum  (sive  iueruditarum)  tarn  domesticarura 
quam  transmarinarum  Socio — forsitan  future. 

PROEMIUM. 

LECTORI  BENEVOLO  S. 

Toga  scholastica  nondum  deposita,  quum  systemata 
varia  entomologica,  a  viris  ejus  scientias  cultoribus  stu- 
diosissimis  summa  diligentia  aedificata,  peiiitus  inda- 
gassem,  non  fnit  quin  luctuose  omnibus  in  iis,  quamvis 
aliter  laude  dignissimis,  hiatum  magni  momenti  per- 
ciperem.  Tune,  nescio  quo  motu  superiore  impulsus, 
aut  qua  captus  dulcedine  operis,  ad  eum  implendum 
(Curtins  alter)  me  solemniter  devovi.  Nee  ab  isto 
labore,  8aifj.ovna<s  imposito,  abstinui  antequam  tractatu- 
lum.  sufficienter  inconcinnum  lingua  vernacula  per- 
feceram.  Inde,  juveniliter  tumefactus,  et  barathro 
ineptiae  r<bv  /9j/9Ato7rwAo>v  (necnon  "  Publici  Legentis  ") 
nusquam  explorato,  me  composnisse  quod  quasi  pla 
centas  praef ervidas  (ut  sic  dicam)  homines  ingurgitarent 
2  17 


18  PROEMIUM. 

credidi.  Sed,  qunm  huic  et  alii  bibliopolae  MSS.  mea 
iubmisissem  et  nihil  solidius  responsione  valde  negativa 
in  Museum  meum  retulissem,  horror  ingens  atque 
misericordia,  ob  crassitudinem  Lambertianam  in  cere- 
bris  homunculorum  istius  muneris  coelesti  quadam  ira 
infixam,  me  invasere.  Extemplo  mei  solius  irapensis 
librum  edere  decrevi,  nihil  omnino  dubitans  quin 
"Mundns  Scientificus"  (ut  aiunt)  crnmenam  nieam 
ampliter  repleret.  Nullam,  attamen,  ex  agro  illo  meo 
parvulo  segetem  demessui,  prater  gandium  vacuum  bene 
de  Eepublica  merendi.  Iste  panis  meus  pretiosus  super 
aquas  literarias  fseculentas  praefidenter  jactus,  quasi 
Harpyiarumquarmidam  (scilicet  bibliopolarum  istorum 
facinorosorum  supradictorum)  tactu  rancidus,  intra 
perpaucos  dies  mihi  domum  rediit.  Et,  quum  ipse 
tali  victn  ali  non  tolerarem,  primum  in  mentem  venit 
pistori  (typographo  nempe)  nihilominus  solvendum 
esse.  Animum  non  idcirco  demisi,  imo  seque  ac  pueri 
naviculas  suas  penes  se  lino  retinent  (eo  nt  e  recto  cursn 
delapsas  ad  ripam  retrahant),  sic  ego  Argo  meam  char- 
taceam  fluctibus  laborantem  a  quaesitu  velleris  aurei, 
ipse  potius  tonsns  pelleque  exutus,  mente  solida  revo- 
cavi.  Metaphoram  ut  mutem,  boomarangam  meam  a 
scopo  aberrantem  retraxi,  dum  majore  vi,  occasione 
ministrante,  adversus  Fortunam  intorquerem.  Ast 
mihi,  [talia  volventi,  et,  sicnt  Saturnus  ille  xatdoflopos, 
liberos  intellectus  mei  depascere  fidenti,  casus  mise- 
randus,  nee  antea  inauditns,  supervenit.  Nam,  ut 
ferunt  Scythas  pietatis  causa  et  parsimoniae,  parentes 
suos  mortuos  devordsse,  sic  filius  hie  meus  primogenitus, 
Scythis  ipsis  minus  mansuetus,  patrem  vivum  totum  et 
calcitrantem  exsorbere  enixus  est.  Nee  tamen  hac  de 
eausa  sobolem  meam  esurientem  exheredavi.  Sed 


PROEMIUM.  19 

famem  istam  pro  valido  testimonio  virilitatis  roborisque 
potius  habui,  cibumque  ad  earn  satiandam,  salvapaterna 
mea  carne,  petii.  Et  quia  bilem  illam  scaturientem  ad 
aes  etiam  concoqaendum  idoneam  esse  estimabam,  unde 
aes  aliennm,  ut  minoris  pretii,  haberem,  circumspexi. 
Eebus  ita  se  habentibus,  ab  avunculo  meo  Johanne  Doo- 
little,  Armigero,  impetravi  ut  pecunias  necessarias 
suppeditaret,  ne  opus  esset  mihi  universitatem  relin- 
quendi  antequam  ad  gradum  primum  in  artibus  per- 
venissern.  Tune  ego,  salvum  facere  patronum  meum 
mnnificum  maxime  cupiens,  omnes  libros  primae  edi- 
tionis  operis  mei  non  venditos  una  cum  privilegio  in 
omne  asvum  ejusdem  imprimendi  et  edendi  avunculo 
meo  dicto  pigneravi.  Ex  illo  die,  atro  lapide  notando, 
curae  vociferantes  families  singulis  annis  crescentis  eo 
usque  insultabant  ut  nunquam  tarn  carum  pignns  e 
vinculis  istis  abeneis  solvere  possem. 

Avunculo  vero  nuper  mortuo,  quum  inter  alios  con- 
sangnineos  testamenti  ejus  lectionem  audiendi  causa 
advenissem,  erectisauribus  verba  talia  sequentia  accepi : 
— "  Quoniam  persuasum  habeo  meum  dilectum  nepo- 
tem  Homerum,  longa  et  intima  rerum  angustarum  domi 
experientia,  aptissimum  esse  qui  divitias  tueatur,  bene- 
ficenterque  ac  prndenter  iis  divinis  creditis  utatur, — 
ergo,  motus  hisce  cogitationibus,  exque  amore  meo  in 
ilium  magno,  do,  legoque  nepoti  caro  meo  supranomi- 
nato  omnes  singularesque  istas  possessiones  nee  ponder- 
abiles  nee  computabiles  meas  quge  sequuntur,  scilicet : 
quingentos  libros  quos  mihi  pigneravit  dictus  Homerns, 
anno  lucis  1792,  cum  privilegio  ydendi  et  repetendi 
opus  istud  'scientificum'  (quod  dicunt)  suum,  si  sic 
elegerit.  Tamen  D.  0.  M.  precor  oculos  Homeri  nepo- 
tis  mei  ita  aperiat  eumque  moveat,  ut  libros  istos  ia 


£0  PROEMIUM. 

bibliotheca  unius  e  plurimis  castellis  snis  Hispaniensibus 
tuto  abscondat." 

His  verbis  (vix  credibilibus)  auditis,  cor  menm  in 
pectore  exsultavit.  Deinde,  quoniam  tractatus  Anglico 
scriptns  spem  auctoris  fefellerat,  quippe  quum  studinm 
Historiae  Naturalis  in  Bepublica  uostra  inter  factionis 
strepitum  languescat,  Latine  versum  edere  statui,  et  eo 
potius  quia  nescio  quomodo  disciplina  academica  et  duo 
diplomata  proficiant,  nisi  quod  peritos  linguarum  om- 
nino  mortnarnm  (et  damnandarum,  ut  dicebat  iste 
xavoupros  Gulielmus  Cobbett)  nos  faciant. 

Et  mihi  adhnc  snperstes  est  tota  ilia  editio  prima, 
quam  quasi  crepitaculum  per  quod  dentes  caninos  den- 
tibam  retineo. 


OPERIS  SPECIMEN. 
(Ad  exemplum  JoJiannis  Physiophili  speciminis  Monachologice. 

12.  S.  B.    Militaris,  WILBUR.    Carnifex,  JABLONSK.   Prof  anus, 
DESPONT. 

[Male  hancce  speciem  Cyclopem  Fabricius  vocat,  ut  qui  sin- 
gulo  oculo  ad  quod  sui  interest  distinguitur.  Melius  vero 
Isaacus  Outis  nullum  inter  S.  rnilit.  S.  que  Belzebul  (Fabric. 
152)  discrimen  esse  defendit.] 

Habitat  civitat.  Americ.  austral. 

Aureis  lineis  splendidus  ;  plerumquetamen  sordidus,  utpote 
lanienas  valde  frequentans,  foetore  sanguinis  allectus.  Aniat 
quoque  insuper  septa  apricari,  neque  inde,  nisi  maxima  co- 
natione,  detruditur.  Candidatus  ergo  populariter  vocatus. 
Caput  cristam  quasi  pennarum  ostendit.  Pro  cibo  vaccam 
publicam  callide  mulget ;  abdomen  enorme  ;  faoultas  suctus 
baud  facile  estimanda.  Otiosus,  fatuus  :  ferox  nihilominus, 
eemperque  dimicare  paratus.  Tortuose  repit. 

Capite  saepe  maxima  cum  cura  dissecto,  ne  illud  rudimen- 


PROEMIUM.  21 

turn  etiam  cerebri  commune  omnibus  prope  insectis  detegere 
poteram. 

Unam  de  hoc  S.  milit.  rem  singularem  notavi ;  nam  S. 
Guineens.  (Fabric.  143)  servos  facit,  et  idcirco  a  multis 
summa  in  reverentia  habitus,  quasi  scintillas'  rationis  psene 
humanse  demonstrans. 

24  S.  B.     Criticus,  WILBUR.     Zoilus,  FABRIC.     Pygmceus, 
CARLSEN. 

[Stultissime  Johannes  Stryx  cum  S.  punctate  (Fabric.  64- 
109)  confundit.  Specimina  quamplurima  scrutationi  micro- 
scopicae  subjeci,  nunquam  tamen  unum  ulla  indicia  puncti 
cujusvis  prorsus  ostendentem  inveni.] 

Praecipue  formidolosus,  insectatusque,  in  proxima  riina 
anoiiyma  sese  abscondit,  ive,  we,  creberrime  stridens.  Inep- 
tus,  segnipes. 

Habitat  ubique  gentium ;  in  sicco ;  nidum  suum  terebra- 
tione  indefessa  aedificans.  Cibus.  Libros  depascit ;  siccos 
praacipue  seligens,  et  forte  succidum. 


INTRODUCTION. 

WHEN",  more  than  three  years  ago,  my  talented 
young  parishioner,  Mr.  Biglow,  came  to  me  and  sub 
mitted  to  my  animadversions  the  first  of  his  poems 
which  he  intended  to  commit  to  the  more  hazardous 
trial  of  a  city  newspaper,  it  never  so  much  as  entered 
my  imagination  to  conceive  that  his  productions  would 
ever  be  gathered  into  a  fair  volume,  and  ushered  into 
the  august  presence  of  the  reading  public  by  myself. 
So  little  are  we  short-sighted  mortals  able  to  predict 
the  event  !  I  confess  that  there  is  to  me  a  quite  new 
satisfaction  in  being  associated  (though  only  as  sleep 
ing  partner)  in  a  book  which  can  stand  by  itself  in  an 
independent  unity  on  the  shelves  of  libraries.  For 
there  is  always  this  drawback  from  the  pleasure  of 
printing  a  sermon,  that,  whereas  the  queasy  stomach 
of  this  generation  will  not  bear  a  discourse  long  enough 
to  make  a  separate  volume,  those  religious  and  godly- 
minded  children  (those  Samuels,  if  I  may  call  them 
so)  of  the  brain  must  at  first  lie  buried  in  an  undis 
tinguished  heap,  and  then  get  stich  resurrection  as  is 
vouchsafed  to  them,  mummy-wrapt  with  a  score  of 
others  in  a  cheap  binding,  with  no  other  mark  of  dis 
tinction  than  the  word  "  Miscellaneous  "  printed  upon 
the  back.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  claim  any  credit  for 
the  quite  unexpected  popularity  which  I  am  pleased 
to  find  these  bucolic  strains  have  attained  unto.  If  I 
know  myself,  1  am  measurably  free  from  the  itch  of 

23 


24  INTRODUCTION. 

vanity  ;  yet  I  may  be  allowed  to  say  that  I  was  no4; 
backward  to  recognize  in  them  a  certain  wild,  puckery. 
acidulous  (sometimes  even  verging  toward  that  point 
which,  in  our  rustic  phrase,  is  termed  shut-eye)  flavor, 
not  wholly  unpleasing,  ^or  unwholesome,  to  palates 
cloyed  with  the  sugariness  of  tamed  and  cultivated 
fruit.  It  may  be,  also,  that  some  touches  of  my  own, 
here  and  there,  may  have  led  to  their  wider  acceptance, 
albeit  solely  from  my  larger  experience  of  literature  and 
authorship.* 

I  was,  at  first,  inclined  to  discourage  Mr.  Biglow's 
attempts,  as  knowing  that  the  desire-  to  poetize  is  one 
of  the  diseases  naturally  incident  to  adolescence,  which, 
if  the  fitting  remedies  be  not  at  once  and  with  a  bold 
hand  applied,  may  become  chronic,  and  render  one, 
who  might  else  have  become  in  due  time  an  ornament 
of  the  social  circle,  a  painful  object  even  to  nearest 
friends  and  relatives.  But  thinking,  on  a  further  ex 
perience,  that  there  was  a  germ  of  promise  in  him 
which  required  only  culture  and  the  pulling  up  of  weeds 
from  around  it,  I  thought  it  best  to  set  before  him  the 
acknowledged  examples  of  English  compositions  in 
verse,  and  leave  the  rest  to  natural  emulation.  With 
this  view,  I  accordingly  lent  him  some  volumes  of  Pope 
and  Goldsmith,  to  the  assiduous  study  of  which  he 
promised  to  devote  his  evenings.  Not  long  afterward, 
he  brought  me  some  verses  written  upon  that  model, 

*  The  reader  curious  in  such  matters  may  refer  (if  he  can 
find  them)  to  "  A  Sermon  Preached  on  the  Anniversary  of 
the  Dark  Day,"  "An  Artillery  Election  Sermon,"  "  A  Dis 
course  on  the  Late  Eclipse,"  "  Dorcas,  a  Funeral  Sermon  on 
the  Death  of  Madam  Submit  Tidd,  Relict  of  the  late  Experi 
ence  Tidd,  Esq.,"  &c.,  &c. 


INTRODUCTION.  25 

a  specimen  of  which  I  subjoin,  having  changed  some 
phrases  of  less  elegancy,  and  a  few  rhymes  objection 
able  to  the  cultivated  ear.  The  poem  consisted  of 
childish  reminiscences,  and  the  sketches  which  follow 
will  not  seem  destitute  of  truth  to  those  whose  fortu 
nate  education  began  in  a  country  village.  And,  first, 
let  us  hang  up  his  charcoal  portrait  of  the  school- 
dame. 

"  Propt  on  the  marsh,  a  dwelling  now,  I  see 
The  humble  schoolhouse  of  my  A,  B,  C, 
Where  well-drilled  urchins,  each  behind  his  tire, 
Waited  in  ranks  the  wished  command  to  fire, 
Then  all  together,  when  the  signal  came, 
Discharged  their  a-b  abs  against  the  dame, 
Who,  'mid  the  volleyed  learning,  firm  and  calm, 
Patted  the  furloughed  ferule  on  her  palm, 
And,  to  our  wonder,  could  detect  at  once 
Who  flashed  the  pan,  and  who  was  downright  dunce. 
There  young  Devotion  learned  to  climb  with  ease 
The  gnarly  limbs  of  Scripture  family-trees, 
And  he  was  most  commended  and  admired 
Who  soonest  to  the  topmost  twig  perspired  ; 
Each  name  was  called  as  many  various  ways 
As  pleased  the  reader's  ear  on  different  days, 
So  that  the  weather,  or  the  ferule's  stings, 
Colds  in  the  head,  or  fifty  other  things, 
Transformed  the  helpless  Hebrew  thrice  a  week 
To  guttural  Pequot  or  resounding  Greek, 
The  vibrant  accent  skipping  here  and  there, 
Just  as  it  pleased  invention  or  despair  ; 
No  controversial  Hebraist  was  the  Dame  ; 
With  or  without  the  points  pleased  her  the  same  ; 
If  any  tyro  found  a  name  too  tough, 
And  looked  at  her,  pride  furnished  skill  enough  ; 
She  nerved  her  larynx  for  the  desperate  thing, 
And  cleared  the  five-barred  syllables  at  a  spring. 


26  INTRODUCTION. 

Ah,  dear  old  times  !  there  once  it  was  my  hap, 
Perched  on  a  stool,  to  wear  the  long-eared  cap  ; 
From  books  degraded,  there  I  sat  at  ease, 
A  drone,  the  envy  of  compulsory  bees." 

I  add  only  one  further  extract,  which  will  possess  a 
melancholy  interest  to  all  such  as  have  endeavored  to 
gleam  the  materials  of  Kevolntionary  history  from  the 
lips  of  aged  persons,  who  took  a  part  in  the  actual 
making  of  it,  and,  finding  the  manufacture  profitable, 
continued  the  supply  in  an  adequate  proportion  to  the 
demand. 

"  Old  Joe  is  gone,  who  saw  hot  Percy  goad 
His  slow  artillery  up  the  Concord  road, 
A  tale  which  grew  in  wonder,  year  by  year, 
As,  every  time  he  told  it,  Joe  drew  near 
To  the  main  fight,  till,  faded  and  grown  gray, 
The  original  scene  to  bolder  tints  gave  way  ; 
Then  Joe  had  heard  the  foe's  scared  double-quick 
Beat  on  stove  drum  with  one  uncaptured  stick, 
And,  ere  death  came  the  lengthening  tale  to  lop, 
Himself  had  fired,  and  seen  a  red-coat  drop  ; 
Had  Joe  lived  long  enough,  that  scrambling  fight 
Had  squared  more  nearly  to  his  sense  of  right,  , 
And  vanquished  Percy,  to  complete  the  tale, 
Had  hammered  stone  for  life  in  Concord  jail." 

I  do  not  know  that  the  foregoing  extracts  ought  not 
to  be  called  my  own  rather  than  Mr.  Biglow's,  as  indeed, 
he  maintained  stoutly  that  my  file  had  left  nothing  of 
his  in  them.  I  should  not,  perhaps,  have  felt  entitled  to 
take  so  great  liberties  with  them,  had  I  not  more  than 
suspected  an  hereditary  vein  of  poetry  in  myself,  a  very 
near  ancestor  having  written  a  Latin  poem  in  the  Har- 
yard  Gratulatio  on  the  accession  of  George  the  Third. 


INTRODUCTION.  27 

Suffice  it  to  say,  that,  whether  not  satisfied  with  such 
limited  approbation  as  I  could  conscientiously  bestow, 
or  from  a  sense  of  natural  inaptitude,  I  know  not,  cer 
tain  it  is  that  my  young  friend  could  never  be  induced 
to  any  further  essays  in  this  kind.  He  affirmed  that 
it  was  to  him  like  writing  in  a  foreign  tongue, — that 
Mr.  Pope's  versification  was  like  the  regular  ticking  of 
one  of  Willard's  clocks,  in  which  one  could  fancy,  after 
long  listening,  a  certain  kind  of  rhythm  or  tune,  but 
which  yet  was  only  a  poverty-stricken  tick,  tick,  after 
all, — and  that  he  had  never  seen  a  sweet-water  on  a 
trellis  growing  so  fairly,  or  in  forms  so  pleasing  to  his 
eye,  as  a  fox-grape  over  a  scrub-oak  in  a  swamp.  He 
added  I  know  not  what,  to  the  effect  that  the  sweet- 
water  would  only  be  the  more  disfigured  by  having  its 
leaves  starched  and  ironed  out,  and  that  Pegasus  (so 
he  called  him)  hardly  looked  right  with  his  mane  and 
tail  in  curl-papers.  These  and  other  such  opinions  I 
did  not  long  strive  to  eradicate,  attributing  them  rather 
to  a  defective  education  and  senses  untuned  by  too  long 
familiarity  with  purely  natural  objects,  than  to  a  per 
verted  moral  sense.  I  was  the  more  inclined  to  this 
leniency  since  sufficient  evidence  was  not  to  seek,  that 
his  verses,  as  wanting  as  they  certainly  were  in  classic 
polish  and  point,  had  somehow  taken  hold  of  the  public 
ear  in  a  surprising  manner.  So,  only  setting  him  right 
as  to  the  quantity  of  the  proper  name  Pegasus,  I  left 
him  to  follow  the  bent  of  his  natural  genius. 

There  are  two  things  upon  which  it  would  seem  fit 
ting  to  dilate  somewhat  more  largely  in  this  place, — 
the  Yankee  character  and  the  Yankee  dialect.  And, 
first,  of  the  Yankee  character,  which  has  wanted  neither 
open  maligners,  nor  even  more  dangerous  enemies  in 


28  INTRODUCTION. 

the  persons  of  those  unskilful  painters  who  have  given 
to  it  that  hardness,  angularity,  and  want  of  proper  per 
spective,  which,  in  truth,  belonged,  not  to  their  sub 
ject,  but  to  their  own  niggard  and  unskilful  pencil. 

New  England  was  not  so  much  the  colony  of  a  mother 
country,  as  a  Hagar  driven  forth  into  the  wilderness. 
The  little  self-exiled  band  which  came  hither  in  1620 
came,  not  to  seek  gold,  but  to  found  a  democracy. 
They  came  that  they  might  have  the  privilege  to  work 
and  pray,  to  sit  upon  hard  benches  and  listen  to  pain 
ful  preachers  as  long  as  they  would,  yea,  even  unto 
thirty-seventhly,  if  the  spirit  so  willed  it.  And  surely, 
if  the  Greek  might  boast  his  Thermopylae,  Avhere  three 
hundred  men  fell  in  resisting  the  Persian,  we  may  well 
be  proud  of  our  Plymouth  Kock,  where  a  handful  of 
men,  women,  and  children  not  merely  faced,  but  van 
quished,  winter,  famine,  the  wilderness,  and  the  yet 
more  invincible  storge  that  drew  them  back  to  the  green 
island  far  away.  These  found  no  lotus  growing  upon 
the  surly  shore,  the  taste  of  which  could  make  them 
forget  their  little  native  Ithaca  ;  nor  were  they  so 
wanting  to  themselves  in  faith  as  to  burn  their  ship, 
but  could  see  the  fair  west  wind  belly  the  homeward 
sail,  and  then  turn  unrepining  to  grapple  with  the 
terrible  Unknown. 

As  Want  was  the  prime  foe  these  hardy  exodists  had 
to  fortress  themselves  against,  so  it  is  little  wonder  if 
that  traditional  feud  is  long  in  wearing  out  of  the  stock. 
The  wounds  of  the  old  warfare  were  long  ahealing,  and 
an  east  wind  of  hard  times  puts  a  new  ache  in  every  one 
of  them.  Thrift  was  the  first  lesson  in  their  horn-book, 
pointed  out,  letter  after  letter,  by  the  lean  finger  of  the 
hard  schoolmaster,  Necessity.  Neither  were  those 


INTRODUCTION.  29 

plump,  rosy-gilled  Englishmen  that  came  hither,  but  a 
hard-faced,  atrabilious,  earnest-eyed  race,  stiff  from 
long  wrestling  with  the  Lord  in  prayer,-  and  who  had 
taught  Satan  to  dread  the  new  Puritan  hug.  Add  two 
hundred  years'  influence  of  soil,  climate,  and  exposure, 
with  its  necessary  result  of  idiosyncrasies,  and  we  have 
the  present  Yankee,  full  of  expedients,  half  master  of 
all  trades,  inventive  in  all  but  the  beautiful,  full  of 
shifts,  not  yet  capable  of  comfort,  armed  at  all  points 
against  the  old  enemy  Hunger,  longanimous,  good  at 
patching,  not  so  careful  for  what  is  best  as  for  Aviiat 
will  do,  with  a  clasp  to  his  purse  and  a  button  to  his 
pocket,  not  skilled  to  build  against  Time,  as  in  old 
countries,  but  against  sore-pressing  Need,  accustomed 
to  move  the  world  with  no  x<>u  arS>  but  his  own  two  feet, 
and  no  lever  but  his  own  long  forecast.  A  strange  hy 
brid,  indeed,  did  circumstances  beget,  here  in  the  New 
World,  upon  the  old  Puritan  stock,  and  the  earth  never 
before  saw  such  mystic-practicalism,  such  niggard-gen 
iality,  such  calculating-fanaticism,  such  cast-iron-enthu 
siasm,  such  unwilling-humor,  such  close-fisted-gener 
osity.  This  new  Grceculus  esuriens  will  make  a  living 
out  of  any  thing.  He  will  invent  new  trades  as  well  as 
tools.  His  brain  is  his  capital,  and  he  will  get  educa 
tion  at  all  risks.  Put  him  on  Juan  Fernandez,  and  he 
would  make  a  spelling-book  first,  and  a  salt-pan  after 
ward.  In  ccelum  jusseris,  Hit, — or  the  other  way 
either, — it  is  all  one,  so  any  thing  is  to  be  got  by  it. 
Yet,  after  all,  thin,  speculative  Jonathan  is  more  like 
the  Englishman  of  two  centuries  ago  than.  John  Bull 
himself  is.  He  has  lost  somewhat  in  solidity,  has  be 
come  fluent  and  adaptable,  but  more  of  the  original 
groundwork  of  character  remains.  He  feels  more 


30  INTRODUCTION. 

at  home  with  Fnlke  Greville,  Herbert  of  Cherbury, 
Quarles,  George  Herbert,  and  Browne,  than  with  his 
modern  English  cousins.  He  is  nearer  than  John,  by 
at  least  a  hundred  years,  -to  Naseby,  Marston  Moor, 
Worcester,  and  the  time  when,  if  ever,  there  were  true 
Englishmen.  John  Bull  has  suffered  the  idea  of  the 
Invisible  to  be  very  much  fattened  out  of  him.  Jona 
than  is  conscious  still  that  he  lives  in  the  world  of  the 
Unseen  as  well  as  of  the  Seen.  To  move  John,  you 
must  make  your  fulcrum  of  solid  beef  and  pudding  ;  an 
abstract  idea  will  do  for  Jonathan. 


V  TO  THE  INDULGENT  READER. 

MY  friend,  the  Reverend  Mr.  Wilbur,  having  been 
seized  with  a  dangerous  fit  of  illness,  before  this  In 
troduction  had  passed  through  the  press,  and  being 
incapacitated  for  all  literary  exertion,  sent  to  me  his 
notes,  memoranda,  &c.,  and  requested  me  to  fashion 
them  into  some  shape  more  fitting  for  the  general  eye. 
This,  owing  to  the  fragmentary  and  disjointed  state  of 
his  manuscripts,  I  have  felt  wholly  unable  tq  do  ;  yet, 
being  unwilling  that  the  reader  should  be  deprived  of 
such  parts  of  his  lucubrations  as  seemed  more  finished, 
and  not  well  discerning  how  to  segregate  these  from 
the  rest,  I  have  concluded  to  send  them  all  to  the  press 
precisely  as  they  are. 

COLUMBUS  NYE,  Pastor  of  a  Church  in  Bungtown 
Corner. 

IT  remains  to  speak  of  the  Yankee  dialect.  And, 
first,  it  may  be  premised,  in  a  general  way,  that  any 


INTRODUCTION.  31 

one  much  read  in  the  writings  of  the  early  colonists 
need  not  be  told  that  the  far  greater  share  of  the  words 
and  phrases  now  esteemed  peculiar  to  New  England,  and 
local  there,  were  brought  from  the  mother  country.  A 
person  familiar  with  the  dialect  of  certain  portions  of 
Massachusetts  will  not  fail  to  recognize,  in  ordinary  dis 
course,  many  words  now  noted  in  English  vocabularies 
as  archaic,  the  greater  part  of  which  were  in  common  use 
about  the  time  of  the  King  James  translation  of  the 
Bible.  Shakspeare  stands  less  in  need  of  a  glossary  to 
most  New  Englanders  than  to  many  a  native  of  the 
Old  Country.  The  peculiarities  of  our  speech,  how 
ever,  are  rapidly  wearing  out.  As  there  is  no  country 
where  reading  is  so  universal  and  newspapers  are  so 
multitudinous,  so  no  phrase  remains  long  local,  but  is 
transplanted  in  the  mail  bags  to  every  remotest  corner 
of  the  land.  Consequently  our  dialect  approaches 
nearer  to  uniformity  than  that  of  any  other  nation. 

The  English  have  complained  of  us  for  coining  new 
words.  Many  of  those  so  stigmatized  were  old  ones 
by  them  forgotten,  and  all  make  now  an  unquestioned 
part  of  the  currency,  wherever  English  is  spoken. 
Undoubtedly,  we  have  a  right  to  make  new  words,  as 
they  are  needed  by  the  fresh  aspects  under  which  life 
presents  itself  here  in  the  New  World  ;  and,  indeed, 
wherever  a  language  is  alive,  it  grows.  It  might  be 
questioned  whether  we  could  not  establish  a  stronger 
title  to  the  ownership  of  the  English  tongue  than  the 
mother-islanders  themselves.  Here,  past  all  question, 
is  to  be  its  great  home  and  centre.  And  not  only  is  it 
already  spoken  here  by  greater  numbers,  but  with  a 
far  higher  popular  average  of  correctness,  than  in 
Britain.  The  great  writers  of  it,  too,  we  might  claim 


32  INTRODUCTION. 

as  ours,  were  ownership  to  be  settled  by  the  number  of 
readers  and  lovers. 

As  regards  the  provincialisms  to  be  met  with  in  this 
volume,  I  may  say  that  the  reader  will  not  find  one 
which  is  not  (as  I  believe)  either  native  or  imported 
with  the  early  settlers,  nor  one  which  I  have  not,  with 
my  own  ears,  heard  in  familiar  use.  In  the  metrical 
portion  of  the  book,  I  have  endeavored  to  adapt  the 
spelling  as  nearly  as  possible  to  the  ordinary  mode  of 
pronunciation.  Let  the  reader  who  deems  me  over 
particular  remember  this  caution  of  Martial : — 

"  Quern  recitas,  meus  est,  O  Fidentine  libellus  ; 
Sed  male  cum  recitas,  incipit  esse  tuns.'' 

A  few  further  explanatory  remarks  will  not  be  im 
pertinent. 

I  shall  barely  lay  down  a  few  general  rules  for  the 
reader's  guidance. 

1.  The  genuine  Yankee  never  gives  the  rough  sound 
to  the  r  when  he  can  help  it,  and  often  displays  con 
siderable  ingenuity  in  avoiding  it  even  before  a  vowel. 

2.  He  seldom  sounds  the  final  g,  a  piece  of  self-denial, 
if  we  consider  his  partiality  for  nasals.     The  same  of 
the  final  d,  as  han'  and  stan'  for  hand  and  stand. 

3.  The  h  in  such  words  as  while,  when,  where,  he 
omits  altogether. 

4.  In  regard  to  a,  he  shows  some  inconsistency,  some 
times  giving  a  close  and  obscure  sound,  as  liev  for  have, 
liendy  for  handy,  ez  for  as,  thet  for  that,  and  again 
giving  it  the  broad  sound  it  has  in  father,  as  hdnsome 
for  handsome. 

5.  To  the  sound  on  he  prefixes  an  e   (hard  to  ex 
emplify  otherwise  than  orally). 


INTRODUCTION.  33 

The  following  passage  in  Shakspeare  he  would  recite 
thus  : — 

"  Neow  is  the  winta  uv  eour  discontent 
Med  glorious  summa  by  this  sun  o'  Yock, 
An'  all  the  cleouds  thet  leowered  upon  eour  heouse 
In  the  deep  buzzum  o'  the  oshiii  buried  ; 
Neow  air  eour  breows  beound  'ith  victorious  wreaths  ; 
Eour  breused  arms  hung  up  fer  monimunce  ; 
Eour  starn  alarums  changed  to  merry  meetins, 
Eour  dreffle  marches  to  delightful  measures. 
Grim-visaged  war  heth  smeuthed  his  wrinkled  front, 
An'  neow,  instid  o'  mountin'  barebid  steeds 
To  fright  the  souls  o'  ferfle  edverseries, 
He  capers  nimly  in  a  lady's  chamber, 
To  the  lascivious  pleasin'  uv  a  loot." 

6.  Au,  in  such  words  as  daughter  and  slaughter,  he 
pronounces  ah. 

7.  To  the  dish  thus  seasoned  add  a  drawl  ad  libitum. 
[Mr.  Wibur's  notes  here  become  entirely  fragmen 
tary.— C.  N.] 

«.  Unable  to  procure  a  likeness  of  Mr.  Biglow,  I 
thought  the  curious  reader  might  be  gratified  with  a 
sight  of  the  editorial  effigies.  And  here  a  choice  be 
tween  two  was  offered, — the  one  a  profile  (entirely 
black)  cut  by  Doyle,  the  other  a  portrait  painted  by  a 
native  artist  of  much  promise.  The  first  of  these 
seemed  wanting  in  expression,  and  in  the  second  a 
slight  obliquity  of  the  visual  organs  has  been  height 
ened  (perhaps  from  an  over-desire  of  force  on  the  part 
of  the  artist)  into  too  close  an  approach  to  actual 
strabismus.  This  slight  divergence  in  my  optical 
apparatus  from  the  ordinary  model — however  I  may 
have  been  taught  to  regard  it  in  the  light  of  a  mercy 
3 


34  INTRODUCTION. 

rather  than  a  cross,  since  it  enabled  me  to  give  as  much 
of  directness  and  personal  application  to  my  discourses 
as  met  the  wants  of  my  congregation,  without  risk  of 
offending  any  by  being  supposed  to  have  him  or  her  in 
my  eye  (as  the  saying  is) — seemed  yet  to  Mrs.  Wilbur 
a  sufficient  objection  to  the  engraving  of  the  aforesaid 
painting.  We  read  of  many  who  either  absolutely 
refused  to  allow  the  copying  of  their  features,  as  espe 
cially  did  Plotinus  and  Agesilaus  among  the  ancients, 
not  to  mention  the  more  modern  instances  of  Scioppius 
Palseottus,  Pinellus,  Velserus,  Gataker,  and  others,  or 
were  indifferent  thereto,  as  Cromwell. 

ft.  Yet  was  Caesar  desirous  of  concealing  his  bald 
ness.  Per  contra,  my  Lord  Protector's  carefulness  in 
the  matter  of  his  wart  might  be  cited.  Men  generally 
more  desirous  of  being  improved  in  their  portraits  than 
characters.  Shall  probably  find  very  unflattered  like 
ness  of  ourselves  in  Eecording  Angel's  gallery. 


f.  Whether  any  of  our  national  peculiarities  may  be 
traced  to  our  use  of  stoves,  as  a  certain  closeness  of  the 
lips  in  pronunciation,  and  a  smothered  smoulderingness 
of  disposition,  seldom  roused  to  open  flame  ?  An  un 
restrained  intercourse  with  fire  probably  conducive  to 
generosity  and  hospitality  of  soul.  Ancient  Mexicans 
used  stoves,  as  the  friar  Augustin  Ruiz  reports,  Hak- 
luyt,  III.,  468, — but  Popish  priests  not  always  reliable 
authority. 

To-day  picked  my  Isabella  grapes.  Crop  injured  by 
attacks  of  rose-bug  in  the  spring.  Whether  Noah  was 
justifiable  in  preserving  this  class  of  insects  ? 


INTRODUCTION.  35 

8.  Concerning  Mr.  Biglow's  pedigree.  Tolerably 
certain  that  there  was  never  a  poet  among  his  ancestors. 
An  ordination  hymn  attributed  to  a  maternal  uncle, 
but  perhaps  a  sort  of  production  not  demanding  the 
creative  faculty. 

His  grandfather  a  painter  of  the  grandiose  or  Michael 
Angelo  school.  Seldom  painted  objects  smaller  than 
houses  or  barns,  and  these  with  uncommon  expression. 

e.  Of  the  Wilburs  no  complete  pedigree.  The  crest 
said  to  be  a  wild  boar,  whence,  perhaps,  the  name.(?) 
A  connection  with  the  Earls  of  Wilbraham  (quasi  wild 
boar  ham)  might  be  made  out.  This  suggestion  worth 

following  up.     In  1677,  John  W.   m.  Expect ,  had 

issue,   1.  John,  2.   Haggai,  3.  Expect,  4.  Ruhamah, 
5.  Desire. 

"  Hear  lyes  ye  bodye  of  Mrs.  Expect  "Wilber, 
Y«  crewell  salvages  they  kil'd  her 
Together  wth  other  Christian  soles  eleaven, 
October  ye  ix  daye,  1707. 
Ye  stream  of  Jordan  sh'  as  crost  ore 
And  now  expeacts  me  on  ye  other  shore : 
I  live  in  hope  her  soon  to  join  ; 
Her  earthlye  yeeres  were  forty  and  nine." 

From  Gravestone  in  Pekussett,  North  Parish. 

This  is  unquestionably  the  same  John  who  afterward 
(1711)  married  Tabitha  Hagg  or  Ragg. 

But  if  this  were  the  case,  she  seems  to  have  died 
early ;  for  only  three  years  after,  namely,  1714,  we 
have  evidence  that  he  married  Winifred,  daughter  of 
Lieutenant  Tipping. 

He  seems  to  have  been  a  man  of  substance,  for  we 
find  him  in  1696  conveying  "  one  undivided  eightieth 


36  INTRODUCTION. 

part  of  a  salt-meadow  "  in  Yabbok,  and  he  commanded 
a  sloop  in  1702. 

Those  who  doubt  the  importance  of  genealogical 
studies  fuste  potius  quam  argumento  erudiendi. 

I  trace  him  as  far  as  1723,  and  there  lose  him.  In' 
that  year  he  was  chosen  selectman. 

No  gravestone.  Perhaps  overthrown  when  new 
hearse-house  was  built,  1802. 

He  was  probably  the  son  of  John,  who  came  from 
Bilham  Comit.  Salop,  circa  1642. 

This  first  John  was  a  man  of  considerable  importance, 
being  twice  mentioned  with  the  honorable  prefix  of  Mr. 
in  the  town  records.  Name  spelt  with  two  Z's. 

"  Hear  lyeth  ye  bod  [stone  unhappily  broken.] 
Mr.  Ihon  Willber  [Esq.]     [I  enclose  this  in  brackets 
as  doubtful.     To  me  it  seems  clear.] 

Ob'tdie  [illegible  ;  looks  like  xviii.] iii  \prob.  1693. J 

....               paynt 
....        deseased  seinte : 
A  friend  and  [fath]er  untoe  all  ye  opreast, 
Hee  gave  ye  wicked  familists  noe  reast, 
When  Sat  [an  bljewe  his  Antinomian  Waste, 
Wee  clong  to  [Willber  as  a  steadfjast  maste. 
[A]gaynst  ye  horrid  Qua[kers] 

It  is  greatly  to  be  lamented  that  this  curious  epitaph 
is  mutilated.  It  is  said  that  the  sacrilegious  British 
soldiers  made  a  target  of  this  stone  during  the  war  of 
Independence.  How  odious  an  animosity  which 
pauses  not  at  the  grave  !  How  brutal  that  which 
spares  not  the  monuments  of  authentic  history  !  This 
is  not  improbably  from  the  pen  of  Kev.  Moody  Pyram, 
who  is  mentioned  by  Hubbard  as  having  been  noted 
for  a  silver  vein  of  poetry.  If  his  papers  be  still  extant, 
a  copy  might  possibly  be  recovered. 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 


No.  I. 
A  LETTER 

FROM  MR.  EZEKIEL  BIGLOW  OF  JAALAM  TO  THE  HON. 
JOSEPH  T.  BUCKINGHAM,  EDITOR  OF  THE  BOSTON" 
COURIER,  INCLOSING  A  POEM  OF  HIS  SON,  MR.  HOSEA 
BIGLOW. 

JAYLEM,  June  1846. 

MISTER  EDDYTER  : — Our  Hosea  wuz  down  to  Boston 
last  week,  and  he  see  a  cruetin  Sarjunt  a  struttin  round 
as  popler  as  a  hen  with  1  chicking,  with  2  fellers  a  drum- 
min  and  fifin  arter  him  like  all  nater.  the  sarjunt  he 
thout  Hosea  hedu't  gut  his  i  teeth  cut  cos  he  looked  a 
kindo's  though  he's  jest  com  down,  so  he  cal'lated  to 
hook  him  in,  but  Hosy  woodn't  take  none  o'  his  sarse 
for  all  he  hed  much  as  20  Rooster's  tales  stuck  onto  his 
hat  and  eenamost  enuf  brass  a  bobbin  up  and  down  on 
his  shoulders  and  figureed  onto  his  coat  and  trousis,  let 
alone  wut  nater  hed  sot  in  his  featers,  to  make  a  6 
pounder  out  on. 

wal,  Hosea  he  com  home  considerabal  riled,  and 
arter  I  'd  gone  to  bed  I  heern  Him  a  thrashin  round  like 
a  short-tailed  Bull  in  fli-time.  The  old  Woman  ses  she 

37 


38  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

to  me  ses  she,  Zekle,  ses  she,  our  Hosee's  gut  the  chol- 
lery  or  suthin  anuther  ses  she,  don't  you  Bee  skeered, 
ses  I,  he's  oney  amakin  pottery  *  ses  i,  he's  oilers  on 
hand  at  that  ere  busynes  like  Da  &  martin,  and  shure 
enuf,  cum  mornin,  Hosy  he  cum  down  stares  full  chiz- 
zle,  hare  on  eend  and  cote  tales  flyin,  and  sot  rite  of  to 
go  reed  his  varses  to  Parson  Wilbur  bein  he  hain't  aney 
grate  shows  o'  book  larnin  himself,  bimeby  he  cum  back 
and  sed  the  parson  wuz  dreffle  tickled  with  'em  as  i 
hoop  you  will  Be,  and  said  they  wuz  True  grit. 

Hosea  ses,  tain't  hardly  fair  to  call  'em  hisn  now,  cos 
the  parson  kind  o'  slicked  off  sum  o'  the  last  varses,  bat 
he  told  Hosee  he  didn't  want  to  put  his  ore  in  to  tetch 
to  the  Rest  on  'em,  bein  they  wnz  verry  well  As  thay 
wuz,  and  then  Hosy  ses  he  sed  suthin  a  nuther  about 
Simplex  Mundishes  or  sum  sech  feller,  but  I  guess  Hosea 
kind  o'  didn't  hear  him,  for  I  never  hearn  o'  nobody  o' 
that  name  in  this  villadge,  and  I've  lived  here  man  and 
boy  76  year  cum  next  tater  diggin,  and  thair  ain't  no 
wheres  a  kitting  spryer  'n  I  be. 

If  you  print  'em  I  wish  you'd  jest  let  folks  know  who 
hosy's  father  is,  cos  my  ant  Keziah  used  to  say  it's  nater 
to  be  curus  ses  she,  she  ain't  livin  though  and  he's  a 
likely  kind  o'  lad. 

EZEKIEL  BIGLOW. 


THE  ASH  away,  you  '11  hev  to  rattle 
On  them  kittle  drums  o'  yourn, — 

'Tain't  a  knowin'  kind  o'  cattle 

Thet  is  ketched  with  mouldy  corn  ; 

*  Aut  insanit,  aut  versos  facit. — H.  W. 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  39 

Put  in  stiff,  yon  fifer  feller, 
Let  folks  see  how  spry  you  be, — 

Guess  you  '11  toot  till  you  are  yeller 
'Pore  you  git  ahold  o'  me  1 


Thet  air  flag  's  a  lettle  rotten, 

Hope  it  ain't  your  Sunday's  best; — 
Fact !  it  takes  a  sight  o'  cotton 

To  stuff  out  a  soger's  chest  : 
Sence  we  farmers  hev  to  pay  fer  't, 

Ef  you  must  wear  humps  like  these, 
Sposin'  you  should  try  salt  hay  fer  't, 

It  would  du  ez  slick  ez  grease. 

'T  would  n't  suit  them  Southern  fellers, 

They  're  a  dreffle  graspin'  set, 
We  must  oilers  blow  the  bellers 

Wen  they  want  their  irons  het ; 
May  be  it  's  all  right  ez  preachin', 

But  my  narves  it  kind  o'  grates, 
Wen  I  see  the  overreachin' 

0'  them  nigger-drivin'  States. 

Them  thet  rule  us,  them  slave-traders, 

Hain't  they  cut  a  thunderin'  swarth, 
(Helped  by  Yankee  renegaders,) 

Thru  the  vartu  o'  the  North  ! 
We  begin  to  think  it 's  nater 

To  take  sarse  an'  not  be  riled  ; — 
Who  'd  expect  to  see  a  tater 

All  on  eend  at  bein'  biled  ? 


40  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Ez  fer  war.  I  call  it  murder, — 

There  you  hev  it  plain  an'  flat ; 
I  don't  want  to  go  no  furder 

Than  my  Testyment  fer  that ; 
God  hez  sed  so  plump  an'  fairly, 

It 's  ez  long  ez  it  is  broad, 
An'  you  've  gut  to  git  up  airly 

Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God. 


'T  ain't  your  eppyletts  an'  feathers 

Make  the  thing  a  grain  more  right ; 
'Taint  afollerin'  your  bell-wethers 

Will  excuse  ye  in  His  sight : 
Ef  you  take  a  sword  an'  dror  it, 

An'  go  stick  a  feller  thru, 
Guv'ment  ain't  to  answer  for  it, 

God  '11  send  the  bill  to  you. 


Wut  's  the  use  o'  meeting-goin* 

Every  Sabbath,  wet  or  dry, 
Ef  it 's  right  to  go  amowin' 

Feller-men  like  oats  an'  rye  ? 
I  dunno  but  wut  it  's  pooty 

Training  round  in  bobtail  coats, — 
But  it 's  cnrus  Christian  dooty 

This  ere  cuttin'  folks's  throats. 


They  may  talk  o'  Freedom's  airy 
Tell  they  're  pupple  in  the  face, — 

It  's  a  grand  gret  cemetary 

Fer  the  barthrights  of  our  race  ; 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  4| 

They  jest  want  this  Califdrny 

So  's  to  lug  new  slave-states  in 
To  abuse  ye,  an'  to  scorn  ye, 

An'  to  plunder  ye  like  sin. 


Ain't  it  cute  to  see  a  Yankee 

Take  sech  everlastin'  pains, 
All  to  git  the  Devil's  thankee, 

Helpin'  on  'em  weld  their  chains  ? 
Wy,  it 's  jest  ez  clear  ez  figgers, 

Clear  ez  one  an'  one  make  two, 
Chaps  thet  make  black  slaves  o'  niggers 

Want  to  make  wite  slaves  o'  you. 

Tell  me  jest  the  eend  I  've  come . to 

Arter  cipherin*  plaguy  smart, 
An'  it  makes  a  handy  sum,  tu, 

Any  gump  could  larn  by  heart ; 
Laborin'  man  an'  laborin'  woman 

Hev  one  glory  an'  one  shame, 
Ev'y  thin'  thet 's  done  inhuman 

Injers  all  on  'em  the  same. 

'Tain't  by  turnin'  out  to  hack  folks 

You  're  goin'  to  git  your  right, 
Nor  by  lookin'  down  on  black  folks 

Coz  you  're  put  upon  by  wite  ; 
Slavery  ain't  o'  nary  color, 

'Tain't  the  hide  thet  makes  it  wus, 
All  it  keers  fer  in  a  feller 

'S  jest  to  make  him  fill  its  pus. 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Want  to  tackle  me  in,  du  ye  ? 

I  expect  you  '11  hev  to  wait ; 
"Wen  cold  lead  puts  daylight  thru  ye 

You  '11  begin  to  kaPlate  ; 
'Spose  the  crows  T,vuu't  fall  to  pickin* 

All  the  carkiss  from  your  bones, 
Coz  yon  helped  to  give  a  lickin' 

To  them  poor  half -Spanish  drones  ? 


Jest  go  home  an'  ask  our  Nancy 

Wether  I  'd  be  sech  a  goose 
Ez  to  jine  ye, — guess  you  'd  fancy 

The  etarnal  bung  wuz  loose  ! 
She  wants  me  fer  home  consumption, 

Let  alone  the  hay  's  to  mow, — 
Ef  you  're  arter  folks  o'  gumption, 

You  've  a  darned  long  row  to  hoe. 

Take  them  editors  thet  's  crowin* 

Like  a  cockerel  three  months  old, — 
Don't  ketch  any  on  'em  goin', 

Though  they  ~be  so  blasted  bold  ; 
Ain't  they  a  prime  set  o'  fellers  ? 

Tore  they  think  on  't  they  will  sprout, 
(Like  a  peach  thet's  got  the  yellers,) 

With  the  meanness  bustin'  out. 

Wai,  go  'long  to  help  'em  stealin* 
Bigger  pens  to  cram  with  slaves, 

Help  the  men  thet 's  oilers  dealin' 
Insults  on  your  fathers'  graves  ; 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  43 

Help  the  strong  to  grind  the  feeble, 

Help  the  many  agin  the  few, 
Help  the  men  thet  call  your  people 

Witewashed  slaves  an'  peddling  crew  ! 


Massachusetts,  God  forgive  her, 

She  's  akneelin'  with  the  rest, 
She,  thet  ough'  to  ha'  clung  fer  ever 

In  her  grand  old  eagle-nest ; 
She  thet  ough'  to  stand  so  fearless 

Wile  the  wracks  are  round  her  hurled, 
Holdin*  up  a  beacon  peerless 

To  the  oppressed  of  all  the  world  ! 


Hain't  they  sold  your  colored  seamen  ? 

Hain't  they  made  your  env'ys  wiz  ? 
Wut  '11  make  ye  act  like  freemen  ? 

Wut  '11  git  your  dander  riz  ? 
Come,  I  '11  tell  ye  wut  I  'm  thinkin* 

Is  our  dooty  in  this  fix, 
They  'd  ha'  done  't  ez  quick  ez  winkin* 

In  the  days  o'  seventy-six. 

Clang  the  bells  in  every  steeple, 

Call  all  true  men  to  disown 
The  tradoocers  of  our  people, 

The  enslavers  o?  their  own  ; 
Let  our  dear  old  Bay  State  proudly 

Put  the  trumpet  to  her  mouth, 
Let  her  ring  this  messidge  loudlj 

In  the  ears  of  all  the  South  : — 


44  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS, 

"  I  '11  return  ye  good  fer  evil 

Much  ez  we  frail  mortils  can, 
But  I  wun't  go  help  the  Devil 

Makin'  man  the  cus  o'  man  ; 
Call  me  coward,  call  me  traiter, 

Jest  ez  suits  your  mean  idees, — 
Here  I  stand  a  tyrant-hater, 

An'  the  friend  o'  God  an'  Peace  ! " 

Ef  I  'd  my  way  I  hed  ruther 

"We  should  go  to  work  an'  part, — 
They  take  one  way,  we  take  t'other, — 

Guess  it  would  n't  break  my  heart ; 
Man  hed  ough'  to  put  asunder 

Them  thet  God  has  noways  jined  ; 
An'  I  should  n't  gretly  wonder 

Ef  there  's  thousands  o'  my  mind. 

[The  first  recruiting  sergeant  on  record  I  conceive 
to  have  been  that  individual  who  is  mentioned  in  the 
Book  of  Job  as  going  to  and  fro  in  the  earth,  and  walk 
ing  up  and  down  in  it.  Bishop  Latimer  will  have  him 
to  have  been  a  bishop,  but  to  me  that  other  calling 
would  appear  more  congenial.  The  sect  of  Cainites  is 
not  yet  extinct,  who  esteemed  the  firstborn  of  Adam 
to  be  the  most  worthy,  not  only  because  of  that  priv 
ilege  of  primogeniture,  but  inasmuch  as  he  was  able  to 
overcome  and  slay  his  younger  brother.  That  was  a 
wise  saying  of  the  famous  Marquis  Pescara  to  the  Papal 
Legate,  that  it  was  impossible  for  men  to  serve  Mars 
and  Christ  at  the  same  time.  Yet  in  time  past  the  pro 
fession  of  arms  was  judged  to  be  xar  i^o^ijv  that  of  a 
gentleman,  nor  does  this  opinion  want  for  strenuous 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  45 

upholders  even  in  our  day.  Must  we  suppose,  then, 
that  the  profession  of  Christianity  was  only  intended 
for  losels,  or,  at  best,  to  afford  an  opening  for  plebeian 
ambition  ?  Or  shall  we  hold  with  that  nicely  meta 
physical  Pomeranian,  Captain  Vratz,  who  was  Count 
Konigsmark's  chief  instrument  in  the  murder  of  Mr. 
uhynne,  that  the  Scheme  of  Salvation  has  been  ar 
ranged  with  an  especial  eye  to  the  necessities  of  the 
upper  classes,  and  that  "  God  would  consider  a  gentle 
man  and  deal  with  him  suitably  to  the  condition  and, 
profession  he  had  placed  him  in  ?  "  It  may  be  said  of 
us  all,  Exemplo  plus  quam  ratione  vivimus. — H.  W.] 


No.  IL 

A  LETTER 

FROM  ME.  HOSEA  BIGLOW  TO  THE  HON.  J.  T.  BUCK 
INGHAM,  EDITOR  OF  THE  BOSTON"  COURIER,  COVERING 
A  LETTER  FROM  MR.  B.  SAWIN,  PRIVATE  IN  THB 
MASSACHUSETTS  REGIMENT. 

[THIS  letter  of  Mr.  Sawin's  was  not  originally  written 
in  verse.  Mr.  Biglow,  thinking  it  peculiarly  suscep 
tible  of  metrical  adornment,  translated  it,  so  to  speak, 
into  his  own  vernacular  tongue.  This  is  not  the  time 
to  consider  the  question,  whether  rhyme  be  a  mode  of 
expression  natural  to  the  human  race.  If  leisure  from 
other  and  more  important  avocations  be  granted,  I 
will  handle  the  matter  more  at  large  in  an  appendix  to 
the  present  volume.  In  this  place  I  will  barely  remark, 
that  I  have  sometimes  noticed  in  the  unlanguaged  prat- 
tlings  of  infants  a  fondness  for  alliteration,  assonance, 
and  even  rhyme,  in  which  natural  predisposition  we 
may  trace  the  three  degrees  through  which  our  Anglo- 
Saxon  verse  rose  to  its  culmination  in  the  poetry  of 
Pope.  I  would  not  be  understood  as  questioning  in 
these  remarks  that  pious  theory  which  supposes  that 
children,  if  left  entirely  to  themselves,  would  naturally 
discourse  in  Hebrew.  For  this  the  authority  of  one 
experiment  is  claimed,  and  I  could,  with  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  desire  its  establishment,  inasmuch  as  the 

46 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  47 

acquirement  of  that  sacred  tongue  would  thereby  be 
facilitated.  I  am  aware  that  Herodotus  states  the 
conclusion  of  Psammeticus  to  have  been  in  favor  of  ai 
dialect  of  the  Phrygian.  But,  beside  the  chance  that 
a  trial  of  this  importance  would  hardly  be  blessed  to  a 
Pagan  monarch  whose  only  motive  was  curiosity,  we 
have  on  the  Hebrew  side  the  comparatively  recent 
investigation  of  James  the  Fourth  of  Scotland.  I  will 
add  to  this  prefatory  remark,  that  Mr.  Sawin,  though 
a  native  of  Jaalam,  has  never  been  a  stated  attendant 
on  the  religious  exercises  of  my  congregation.  I  con 
sider  my  humble  efforts  prospered  in  that  not  one  of 
my  sheep  hath  ever  indued  the  wolf's  clothing  of 
war,  save  for  the  comparatively  innocent  diversion  of  a 
militia  training.  Not  that  my  flock  are  backward  to 
undergo  the  hardship  of  defensive  warfare.  They  serve 
cheerfully  in  the  great  army  which  fights  even  unto 
death  pro  aris  et  focis,  accoutred  with  the  spade,  the 
axe,  the  plane,  the  sledge,  the  spelling-book,  and  other 
such  effectual  weapons  against  want  and  ignorance  and 
unthrift.  I  have  taught  them  (under  God)  to  esteem 
our  human  institutions  as  but  tents  of  a  night,  to  be 
stricken  whenever  Truth  puts  the  bugle  to  her  lips 
and  sounds  a  march  to  the  heights  of  wider-viewed 
intelligence  and  more  perfect  organization. — H.  W.] 

MISTER  BUCKIKTUM,  the  follerin  Billet  was  writ  hum 
by  a  Yung  feller  of  our  town  that  wuz  cussed  fool 
enuff  to  goe  atrottin  inter  Miss  Chiff  arter  a  Drum  and 
fife,  it  ain't  Nater  for  a  feller  to  let  on  that  he's  sick 
o'  any  bizness  that  He  went  intu  off  his  own  free  will 
and  a  Cord,  but  I  rather  cal'late  he's  middlin  tired  o* 
roluntearin  By  this  Time.  I  bleeve  u  may  put  de- 


48  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

pendunts  on  his  statemence.  For  I  never  heered  nothin 
bad  on  him  let  Alone  his  havin  what  Parson  Wilbur 
cals  a  pongshong  for  cocktales,  and  he  ses  it  wuz  a 
soshiashun  of  idees  sot  him  agoin  arter  the  Crootin 
Sargient  cos  he  wore  a  cocktale  onto  his  hat. 

his  Folks  gin  the  letter  to  me  and  i  shew  it  to  parson 
Wilbur  and  he  ses  it  oughter  Bee  printed,  send  It  to 
mister  Buckinnm,  ses  he,  i  don't  allers  agree  with  him, 
ses  he,  but  by  Time,*  ses  he,  I  du  like  a  feller  that 
ain't  a  Feared. 

I  have  intusspussed  a  Few  refleckshuns  hear  and  thair. 
We're  kind  o'  prest  with  Hayin. 

Ewers  respecfly 

HOSEA  BIGLOW. 

THIS  kind  o*  sogerin*  ain't   a  mite  like  our  October 

training 
A  chap  could  clear  right  out  from  there  ef  't  only 

looked  like  raininV 
An'  th'  Gunnies,  tu,   could  kiver    up    their  shappoes 

with  bandanners, 
An'  send  the  insines  skootin'  to  the  barroom  with  their 

banners, 
(Fear  o'  gittin'  on  'em  spotted,)  an'  a  feller  could  cry 

quarter 

*  In  relation  to  this  expression,  I  cannot  but  think  that 
Mr.  Biglow  has  been  too  hasty  in  attributing  it  to  me.  Though 
Time  be  a  comparatively  innocent  personage  to  swear  by, 
and  though  Longinus  in  his  discourse  Ilepi  T^ovf  has  com 
mended  timely  oaths  as  not  only  a  useful  but  sublime  figure 
of  speech,  yet  I  have  always  kept  my  lips  free  from  that 
abomination.  Odi  profanum  vulgus,  I  hate  your  swearing 
and  hectoring  fellows. — H.  W. 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  49 

Ef  he  fired  away  his  ramrod  arter  tu  much  rum  an' 

water. 

Recollect  wut  fun  we  hed,  you  'n  I  an  Ezry  Hollis, 
Up  there  to  Waltham  plain  last  fall,  ahavin'  the  Corn- 

wallis  ?  * 
This  sort  o'  thing  ain't  jest  like  thet, — I  wish  thet  I  was 

furder, — f 
Nimepunce  a  day  fer  killin'  folks  comes  kind  o'  low  fer 

murder, 

(Wy  I  've  worked  out  to  slarterin'  some  fer  Deacon  Ce 
phas  Billins, 
An'  in  the  hardest  times  there  wuz  I  oilers  tetched  ten 

shillins, 
There's  sutthin'  gits  into  my  throat  thet  makes  it  hard 

to  swaller, 

It  comes  so  nateral  to  think  about  a  hempen  collar  ; 
It 's  glory, — but,  in  spite  o'  all  my  tryin'  to  git  callous, 
I  feel  a  kind  o'  in  a  cart,  aridin*  to  the  gallus. 
But   wen  it  comes  to  bein'   killed, — I  tell  ye  I  felt 

streaked 
The  fust  time  ever  I  found  out  wy  baggonets  wuz 

peaked ; 

Here  's  how  it  wuz  :  I  started  out  to  go  to  a  fandango, 
The  sentinul  he  ups  an' sez,  "Thet's  furder  'an  you 

can  go." 
"  None  o'  your  sarse,"  sez  I ;  sez  he,  "  Stan'  back  ! " 

"Ain't  you  a  buster?" 
Sez  I,  "I'm  up  to  all  thet  air,  I  guess  I've  ben  to 

muster ; 


*  i  hait  the  Site  of  a  feller  with  a  muskit  as  I  du  pizn  But 
their  is  fun  to  a  cornwallis  I  ain't  agoin'  to  deny  it.— H.  B. 
f  he  means  Not  quite  so  fur  i  guess. — H.  B. 
4 


50  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  J 

I  know  wy  sentinuls  air  sot ;  you  ain't  agoin'  to  cat 

us  ; 

Caleb  hain't  no  monopoly  to  court  the  seenoreetas  ; 
My  folks  to  hum  air  full  ez  good  ez  hisn  be,  by  golly  ! " 
An*  so  cz  I  wuz  goin'  by,  not  thinkin  wut  would  folly, 
The  everlastin'  cus  he  stuck  his  one-pronged  pitchfork 

in  me 
An'  made  a  hole  right  thru  my  close  ez  ef  I  wuz  an 

in'my. 

Wai,  it  beats  all  how  big  I  felt  hoorawin'  in  ole  Fun 
nel 
Wen  Mister  Bolles  he  gin  the  sword  to  our  Leftenant 

Cunnle, 
(It's  Mister   Secondary   Bolles,*  thet  writ  the  prize 

peace  essay  ; 

Thet's  why  he  did  n't  list  himself  along  o*  us,  I  dessay,) 
An'  Rantonl,  tu,  talked  pooty  loud,  but  don't  put  his 

foot  in  it, 
Coz  human  life 's  so  sacred  thet  he 's  principled  agin* 

it,— 
Though  I  myself  can 't  rightly  see  it 's  any  wus  achokin* 

on  'em 
Than  puttin'  bullets  thru  their  lights,  or  with  a  bagnet 

pokin'  on  'em ; 
How  dreffle  slick  he  reeled  it  off,   (like  Blitz  at  onr 

lyceum 
Ahaulin'  ribbins  from  his  chops  so  quick  you  skeercely 

see  'em,) 
About  the   Anglo-Saxon  race   (an*  saxons  would  be 

handy 
To  du  the  buryin*  down  here  upon  the  Rio  Grandy), 

*  the  ignerant  creeter  meens  Sekketary  ;  but  he  oilers  stuck 
to  hi*  books  like  cobbler's  wax  to  an  ile-stone. — H.  B.    ' 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  51 

About  our  patriotic  pas  an'  onr  star-spangled  banner, 

Our  country's  bird  alookin'  on  an'  singin'  out  hosanner, 

An'  how  he  (Mister  B.  himself)  wuz  happy  fer  Amer- 
iky,— 

I  felt,  ez  sister  Patience  sez,  a  leetle  mite  histericky. 

I  felt,  I  swon,  ez  though  it  wuz  a  dreffle  kind  o'  privi 
lege 

Atrampin'  round  thru  Boston  streets  among  the  gutter's 
drivelage ; 

I  act'lly  thought  it  wuz  a  treat  to  hear  a  little  drum- 
min', 

An'  it  did  bonyfidy  seem  millanyum  wuz  acomin' 

Wen  all  on  us  got  suits  (darned  like  them  wore  in  the 
state  prison) 

An'  every  feller  felt  ez  though  all  Mexico  wuz  hisn.* 

This  'ere  's  about  the  meanest  place  a  sknnk  could  wal 

diskiver 

(Saltillo  's  Mexican,  I  b'lieve,  fer  wut  we  call  Saltriver). 
The  sort  o'  trash  a  feller  gits  to  eat  doos  beat  all  nater, 
I  'd  give  a  year's  pay  fer  a  smell  o'  one  good  bluenose 

tater  ; 
The  country  here  that  Mister  Bolles  declared  to  be  so 

charmin 
Throughout  is  swarmin*  with  the  most  alarmin'  kind  o* 

varmin'. 

*  it  must  be  aloud  that  thare  's  a  streak  o'  nater  in  lovin'  sho, 
but  it  sartinly  is  1  of  the  curusest  things  in  nater  to  see  a  ris- 
pecktable  dri  goods  dealer  (deekon  off  a  chutch  mayby)  a 
riggin'  himself  out  in  the  Weigh  they  du  and  struttin'  round 
in  the  Reign  aspilin'  his  trowsis  and  makin'  wet  goods  of  him 
self.  Ef  any  thin  's  f oolisher  and  moor  dicklus  than  militerry 
gloary  it  is  milishy  gloary. — H.  B. 


52  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

He  talked  about  delishis  f roots,  but  then  it  wuz  a  woppei 

all, 
The  holl  on't  's  mud  an'  prickly  pears,  with  here  an* 

there  a  chapparal  ; 

You  see  a  feller  peekin'  out,  an',  fust  you  know,  a  lariat 
Is  round  your  throat  an'  you  a  copse,  'fore  you  can  say, 

"  Wut  air  ye  at  ?  "  * 
You  never  see  sech  darned  gret  bugs  (it  may  not  be 

irrelevant 
To  say  I  've  seen  a  scarabceus  pilularius  t  big  ez  a  year 

old  elephant,) 
The  rigiment  come  up  one  day  in  time  to  stop  a  red 

bug 
From  runnin'  off  with  Cunnle  Wright, — 't  wuz  jest  a 

common  cimex  lectularius. 
One  night  I  started  up  on  eend  an'  thought  I  wuz  to 

hum  agin, 
I  heern  a  horn,  thinks  I  it  'a  Sol  the  fisherman  hez  come 

agin, 

His  bellowses  is  sound  enough, — ez  I  'm  a  livin  creeter, 
I  felt  a  thing  go  thru  my  leg, — 't  wuz  nothin*  more  *n 

a  skeeter  ! 
Then  there  's  the  yaller  fever,  tu,  they  call  it  here  el 

vomito, — 
(Come,  thet  wun't  du,  you  landcrab  there,  I  tell  ye  to 

le'  go  my  toe  ! 

*  these  fellers  are  verry  proppilly  called  Rank  Heroes,  and 
the  more  tha  kill  the  ranker  and  more  Herowick  tha  bekum. 
— H.  B. 

f  it  wuz  "  tumblebug  "  as  he  Writ  it,  but  the  parson  put  the 
Latten  instid.  i  sed  tother  maid  better  meeter,  but  he  said 
tha  was  eddykated  peepl  to  Boston  and  tha  would  n't  stan'  it 
no  how.  idnow  as  tha  wood  and  idnow  as  tha  wood. — H.  B, 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  53 

My  gracious !  it  'a  a  scorpion  thet  's  took  a  shine  to 

play  with  'i, 
I  dars  n't  skeer  the  tarnal  thing  f er  fear  he  M  run  away 

witfa't.) 

Afore  I  come  away  from  hum  I  lied  a  strong  persuasion 
Thet   Mexicans    worn't    human    beans,* — an    ourang 

outang  nation, 
A  sort  o'  folks  a  chap  could  kill  an*  never  dream  on  't 

arter, 
No  more  'n  a  feller  'd  dream  o'  pigs  thet  he  lied  lied  to 

slarter ; 
I 'd  an  idee  thet  they  were  built  arter  the  darkie  fashion 

all, 
An*  kickin'  colored  folks  about,  you  know,  's  a  kind  o' 

national  ; 
But  when  I  jined  I  woru't  so  wise  ez  thet  air  queen  o' 

Sheby, 
Fer,  come  to  look  at  'em,  they  ain't  much  diff'rent  from 

wut  we  be, 

An*  here   we  air  ascrougin'  'em  out  o'  thir  own  do 
minions, 

Ashelterin'  'em,  ez  Caleb  sez,  under  our  eagle's  pin 
ions, 
Wich  means  to  take  a  feller  up  jest  by  the  slack  o'  's 

trowsis 
An'  walk  him  Spanish  clean  right  out  o'  all  his  homes 

an'  houses ; 
Wai,  it  doos  seem  a  curus  way,  but  then  hooraw  fer 

Jackson  ! 
It  must  be  right,  fer  Caleb  sez  it 's  reglar  Anglo-saxon. 

*  he  means  human  beins,  that 's  wut  he  means.  I  spose  he 
kinder  thought  tha  wuz  human  beans  ware  the  Xisle  Poles 
comes  from. — H.  B. 


54  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS, 

The  Mexicans  don't  fight  fair,  they  say,  they  piz'n  all 

the  water, 

An'  dn  amazin'  lots  o'  things  thet  is  n't  wut  they  ough'  to  ; 
Bein' they  hain't  no  lead,  they  make  their  bullets  out  o' 

copper 
An'  shoot  the  darned  things  at  us,  tu,  wich  Caleb  sez 

ain't  proper ; 
He  sez  they  'd  ough'  to  stan'  right  up  an'  let  us  pop  'em 

fairly, 
(Guess  wen  he  ketches  'em  at  thet  he  '11  hev  to  git  up 

airly,) 
Thet  our  nation  's  bigger  'n  theirn  an'  so  its  rights  air 

bigger, 

An'  thet  it 's  all  to  make  'em  free  thet  we  air  pullin'  trig 
ger, 

Thet  Anglo  Saxondom's  idee  's  abreakin'  'em  to  pieces, 
An'  thet  idee  's  thet  every  man  doos  jest  wut  he  damn 

pleases ; 
Ef  I  don't  make  his  meanin'  Qlear,  perhaps  in  some  re- 

spex  I  can, 
I  know  thet  "every  man"  don't  mean  a  nigger  or  a 

Mexican ; 
An'  there  's  another  thing  I  know,  an'  thet  is,  ef  these 

creeturs, 
Thet   stick  an  Anglosaxon   mask  onto    State-prison 

feeturs, 
Should  come  to  Jaalam  Centre  fer  to  argify  an'  spout 

on  't, 
The  gals  'ould  count  the  silver  spoons  the  minnit  they 

cleared  out  on 't. 

This  goin'  ware  glory  waits  ye  hain't  one  agreeable 
feetur, 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  55 

An"  if  it  worn't  f er  wakin'  snakes,  F  d  home  agin  short 
meter ; 

0,  would  n't  I  be  off,  quick  time,  eft  worn't  that  I 
wuz  sartin 

They  'd  let  the  daylight  into  me  to  pay  me  f  er  desartin  ! 

I  don't  approve  o'  tellin'  tales,  bat  jest  to  you  I  may 
state 

Our  ossifers  ain't  wut  they  wuz  afore  they  left  the  Bay- 
state  ; 

Then  it  wnz  "  Mister  Sawin,  sir,  you  're  middlin'  well 
now,  be  ye  ? 

Step  up  an'  take  a  nipper,  sir  ;  I  'm  dreffle  glad  to  see 

VP"  • 

jb     > 

But  now  it 's  "  Ware 's  my  eppylet  ?  here,  Sawin,  step 

an'  fetch  it ! 
An'  mind  your  eye,  be  thund'rin'  spry,  or,  damn  ye, 

you  shall  ketch  it ! " 
Wai,  ez  the  Doctor  sez,  some  pork  will  bile  so,  but  by 

mighty, 

Ef  I  hed  some  on  'em  to  hum,  I  'd  give  'em  linkum  vity, 
I  'd  play  the  rogue's  march  on  their  hides  an'  other 

music  follerin' 

But  I  must  close  my  letter  here,  for  one  on  'em 's  ahol- 

lerin', 

These  Anglosaxon  ossifers, — wal,  tain't  no  use  ajawin', 
I  'm  safe  enlisted  f  er  the  war, 
Yourn, 

BIKDOFREDOM  SAWIN. 

[Those  have  not  been  wanting  (as,  indeed,  when  hath 
Satan  been  to  seek  for  attorneys  ?)  who  have  maintained 
that  our  late  inroad  upon  Mexico  was  undertaken,  not 
so  much  for  the  avenging  of  any  national  quarrel,  as  for 


56  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

the  spreading  of  free  institutions  and  of  Protestantism. 
Capita  vix  duabus  Anticyris  medenda  !  Verily  I  ad 
mire  that  no  pious  sergeant  among  these  new  Cru 
saders  beheld  Martin  Luther  riding  at  the  front  of  the 
host  upon  a  tamed  pontifical  bull,  as,  in  that  former 
invasion  of  Mexico,  the  zealous  Diaz  (spawn  though  he 
were  of  the  Scarlet  Woman)  was  favored  with  a  vision 
of  St.  James  of  Compostella,  skewering  the  infidels  upon 
his  apostolical  lance.  We  read,  also,  that  Kichard  of 
the  lion  heart,  having  gone  to  Palestine  on  a  similar 
errand  of  mercy,  was  divinely  encouraged  to  cut  the 
throats  of  such  Paynims  as  refused  to  swallow  the 
bread  of  life  (doubtless  that  they  might  be  thereafter 
incapacitated  for  swallowing  the  filthy  gobbets  of  Ma- 
hound)  by  angels  of  heaven,  who  cried  to  the  king  and 
his  knights, — Seigneurs,  tuez !  tuez !  providentially 
using  the  French  tongue,  as  being  the  only  one  under 
stood  by  their  auditors.  This  would  argue  for  the  pan- 
toglottism  of  these  celestial  intelligences,  while,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  Devil  teste  Cotton  Mather,  is  unversed 
in  certain  of  the  Indian  dialects.  Yet  must  he  be  a 
semeiologist  the  most  expert,  making  himself  intelligible 
to  every  people  and  kindred  by  signs ;  no  other  dis 
course,  indeed,  being  needful,  than  such  as  the  mack 
erel-fisher  holds  with  his  finned  quarry,  who,  if  other 
bait  be  wanting,  can  by  a  bare  bit  of  white  rag  at  the 
end  of  a  string  captivate  those  foolish  fishes.  Such  pis 
catorial  oratory  is  Satan  cunning  in.  Before  one  he 
trails  a  hat  and  feather  or  a  bare  feather  without  a  hat ; 
before  another,  a  Presidential  chair,  or  a  tidewaiter's 
stool,  or  a  pulpit  in  the  city,  no  matter  what.  To  us, 
dangling  there  over  our  heads,  they  seem  junkets 
dropped  out  of  the  seventh  heaven,  sops  dipped  iq 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  57 

nectar,  but,  once  in  our  mouths,  they  are  all  one,  bits 
of  fuzzy  cotton. 

This,  however,  by  the  way.  It  is  time  now  revocare 
gradum.  While  so  many  miracles  of  this  sort,  vouched 
by  eyewitnesses,  have  encouraged  the  arms  of  Papists, 
not  to  speak  of  those  Dioscuri  (whom  we  must  conclude 
imps  of  the  pit)  who  sundry  times  captained  the  pagan 
Eoman  soldiery,  it  is  strange  that  our  first  American 
crusade  was  not  in  some  such  wise  also  signalized. 
Yet  it  is  said  that  the  Lord  hath  manifestly  prospered 
our  armies.  This  opens  the  question,  whether,  when 
our  hands  are  strengthened  to  make  great  slaughter  of 
our  enemies,  it  be  absolutely  and  demonstratively  cer 
tain  that  this  might  is  added  to  us  from  above,  or 
whether  some  Potentate  from  an  opposite  quarter  may 
not  have  a  finger  in  it,  as  there  are  few  pies  into  which 
his  meddling  digits  are  not  thrust.  Would  the  Sancti- 
fier  and  Setter-apart  of  the  seventh  day  have  assisted  in 
a  victory  gained  on  the  Sabbath,  as  was  one  in  the  late 
war  ?  Or  has  that  day  become  less  an  object  of  his  es 
pecial  care  since  the  year  1697,  when  so  manifest  a  pro 
vidence  occurred  to  Mr.  William  Trowbridge,  in  answer 
to  whose  prayers,  when  he  and  all  on  shipboard  with 
him  were  starving,  a  dolphin  was  sent  daily,  *'•  which 
was  enough  to  serve  'em  ;  only  on  Saturdays  they  still 
catched  a  couple,  and  on  the  Lord's  Days  they  could 
catch  none  at  all "  ?  Haply  they  might  have  been  per 
mitted,  by  way  of  mortification,  to  take  some  few  scul- 
pins  (those  banes  of  the  salt-water  angler),  which  un 
seemly  fish  would,  moreover,  have  conveyed  to  them  a 
symbolical  reproof  for  their  breach  of  the  day,  being 
known  in  the  rude  dialect  of  our  mariners  as  Cape  Cod 
Clergymen, 


58  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

It  has  been  a  refreshment  to  many  nice  consciences 
to  know  that  our  Chief  Magistrate  would  not  regard 
with  eyes  of  approval  the  (by  many  esteemed)  sinful 
pastime  of  dancing,  and  I  own  myself  to  be  so  far  of 
that  mind,  that  I  could  not  but  set  my  face  against  this 
Mexican  Polka,  though  danced  to  the  Presidential  pip 
ing  with  a  Gubernatorial  second.  If  ever  the  country 
should  be  seized  with  another  such  mania  de  propa 
ganda  fide,  I  think  it  would  be  wise  to  fill  our  bomb 
shells  with  alternate  copies  of  the  Cambridge  Platform 
and  the  Thirty-nine  Articles,  which  would  produce  a 
mixture  of  the  highest  explosive  power,  and  to  wrap 
every  one  of  our  cannon-balls  in  a  leaf  of  the  New  Tes 
tament,  the  reading  of  which  is  denied  to  those  who 
git  in  the  darkness  of  Popery.  Those  iron  evangelists 
would  thus  be  able  to  disseminate  vital  religion  and 
Gospel  truth  in  quarters  inaccessible  to  the  ordinary 
missionary.  I  have  seen  lads,  unimpregnate  with  the 
more  sublimated  punctiliousness  of  Walton,  secure 
pickerel,  taking  their  unwary  siesta  beneath  the  lily- 
pads  too  nigh  the  surface,  with  a  gun  and  small  shot. 
Why  not,  then,  since  gunpowder  Avas  unknown  to  the 
Apostles  (not  to  enter  here  upon  the  question  whether 
it  were  discovered  before  that  period  by  the  Chinese), 
suit  our  metaphor  to  the  age  in  which  we  live  and  say 
shooters  as  well  as  fishers  of  men  ? 

I  do  much  fear  that  we  shall  be  seized  now  and  then 
with  a  Protestant  fervor,  as  long  as  we  have  neighbor 
Naboths  whose  wallowings  in  Papistical  mire  excite  our 
horror  in  exact  proportion  to  the  size  and  desirableness 
of  their  vineyards.  Yet  I  rejoice  that  some  earnest 
Protestants  have  been  made  by  this  war, — I  mean  those 
who  protested  against  it.  Fewer  they  were  than  I 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  59 

could  wish,  for  one  might  imagine  America  to  have 
been  colonized  by  a  tribe  of  those  nondescript  African 
animals  the  Aye-Ayes,  so  difficult  a  word  is  No  to  us 
all.  There  is  some  malformation  or  defect  of  the  vocal 
organs,  which  either  prevents  our  uttering  it  at  all,  or 
gives  it  so  thick  a  pronunciation  as  to  be  unintelligible. 
A  mouth  filled  with  the  national  pudding,  or  watering 
in  expectation  thereof,  is  wholly  incompetent  to  this 
refractory  monosyllable.  An  abject  and  herpetic  Pub 
lic  Opinion  is  the  Pope,  the  Anti-Christ,  for  us  to  pro 
test  against  e  corde  cordium..  And  by  what  College  of 
Cardinals  is  this  our  God's-vicar,  our  binder  and  looser, 
elected  ?  Very  like,  by  the  sacred  conclave  of  Tag, 
Rag,  and  Bobtail,  in  the  gracious  atmosphere  of  the 
grog-shop.  Yet  it  is  of  this  that  we  must  all  be  puppets. 
This  thumps  the  pulpit-cushion,  this  guides  the  editor's 
pri,  this  wags  the  senator's  tongue.  This  decides 
what  Scriptures  are  canonical,  and  shuffles  Christ  away 
into  the  Apocrypha.  "  According  to  that  sentence  fath 
ered  upon  Solon,  Ourut  8ijiJ.6fft.ov  xaxdv  ep%£Tat  ofza<5' 
ixdffrtp.  This  unclean  spirit  is  skilful  to  assume  various 
shapes.  I  have  known  it  to  enter  my  own  study  and 
nudge  my  elbow  of  a  Saturday,  under  the  semblance  of 
a  wealthy  member  of  my  congregation.  It  were  a 
great  blessing,  if  every  particular  of  what  in  the  sum 
we  call  popular  sentiment  could  carry  about  the  name 
of  its  manufacturer  stamped  legibly  upon  it.  I  gave  a 
stab  under  the  fifth  rib  to  that  pestilent  fallacy, — "  Our 
country,  right  or  wrong," — by  tracing  its  original  to  a 
speech  of  Ensign  Cilley  at  a  dinner  of  the  Buugtown 
Fencibles.— H.  W.] 


No.  III. 
WHAT  MR.  ROBINSON  THINKS. 

[A  FEW  remarks  on  the  following  verses  will  not  be 
out  of  place.  The  satire  in  them  was  not  meant  to 
have  any  personal,  but  only  a  general,  application.  Of 
the  gentleman  upon  whose  letter  they  were  intended  as 
a  commentary  Mr.  Biglow  had  never  heard,  till  he  saw 
the  letter  itself.  The  position  of  the  satirist  is  often 
times  one  which  he  would  not  have  chosen,  had  the 
election  been  left  to  himself.  In  attacking  bad  prin 
ciples,  he  is  obliged  to  select  some  individual  who  has 
made  himself  their  exponent,  and  in  whom  they  are 
impersonate,  to  the  end  that  what  he  says  may  not, 
through  ambiguity,  be  dissipated  tenues  in  auras.  For 
what  says  Seneca  ?  Longum  Her  per  prcecepta,  breve  et 
efficace  per  exempla.  A  bud  principle  is  comparatively 
harmless  while  it  continues  to  be  an  abstraction,  nor  can 
the  general  mind  comprehend  it  fully  till  it  is  printed 
in  that  large  type  which  all  men  can  read  at  sight, 
namely,  the  life  and  character,  the  sayings  and  doings, 
of  particular  persons.  It  is  one  of  the  cunningest 
fetches  of  Satan,  that  he  never  exposes  himself  directly 
to  our  arrows,  but,  still  dodging  behind  this  neighbor 
or  that  acquaintance,  compels  us  to  wound  him  through 
them,  if  at  all.  He  holds  our  affections  as  hostages, 
the  while  he  patches  up  a  truce  with  our  conscience. 

Meanwhile,  let  us  not  forget  that  the  aim  of  the  true 
60 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  61 

satirist  is  not  to  be  severe  upon  persons,  but  only  upon 
falsehood,  and,  as  Truth  and  Falsehood  start  from  the 
same  point,  and  sometimes  even  go  along  together  for  a 
little  way,  his  business  is  to  follow  the  path  of  the  lat 
ter  after  it  diverges,  and  to  show  her  floundering  in  the 
bog  at  the  end  of  it.  Truth  is  quite  beyond  the  reach 
of  satire.  There  is  so  brave  a  simplicity  in  her,  that 
she  can  no  more  be  made  ridiculous  than  an  oak  or 
pine.  The  danger  of  the  satirist  is,  that  continual  use 
may  deaden  his  sensibility  to  the  force  of  language. 
He  becomes  more  and  more  liable  to  strike  harder  than 
he  knows  or  intends.  He  may  be  careful  to  put  on  his 
boxing-gloves,  and  yet  forget,  that,  the  older  they 
grow,  the  more  plainly  may  the  knuckles  inside  be  felt. 
Moreover,  in  the  heat  of  contest,  the  eye  is  insensibly 
drawn  to  the  crown  of  victory,  whose  tawdry  tinsel 
glitters  through  that  dust  of  the  ring  which  obscures 
Truth's  wreath  of  simple  leaves.  I  have  sometimes 
thought  that  my  young  friend,  Mr.  Biglow,  needed  a 
monitory  hand  laid  on  his  arm, — aliquid  sufflaminan- 
dus  erat.  I  have  never  thought  it  good  husbandry  to 
water  the  tender  plants  of  reform  with  aquafortis,  yet, 
where  so  much  is  to  do  in  the  beds,  he  were  a  sorry 
gardener  who  should  wage  a  whole  day's  war  with  an 
iron  scuffle  on  those  ill  weeds  that  make  the  garden- 
walks  of  life  unsightly,  when  a  sprinkle  of  Attic  salt 
will  wither  them  up.  Est  ars  etiam  maledicendi,  says 
Scaliger,  and  truly  it  is  a  hard  thing  to  say  where  the 
graceful  gentleness  of  the  lamb  merges  in  downright 
sheepishness.  We  may  conclude  with  worthy  and  wise 
Dr.  Fuller,  that  "one  may  be  a  lamb  in  private  wrongs, 
but  in  hearing  general  affronts  to  goodness  they  are 
asses  which  are  not  lions." — H.  W.j 


62  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

GUVENER  B.  is  a  sensible  man  ; 

He  stays  to  his  home  an'  looks  arter  his  folks  ; 
He  draws  his  fnrrer  ez  straight  ez  he  can, 
An'  into  nobody's  tater-patch  pokes  ; — 
But  John  P. 
Kobinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

My  !  ain't  it  terrible  ?    Wut  shall  we  du  ? 

We  can't  never  choose  him,  o'  course, — thet's  flat  ; 
Guess  we  shall  hev  to  come  round,  (don't  you  ?) 
An'  go  in  fer  thunder  an'  guns,  an'  all  that  ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Eobinson  he 
Sez  he  wunt  vote  fer  Guvener  B. 

Gineral  0.  is  a  dreffle  smart  man  : 

He  's  ben  on  all  sides  thet  give  places  or  pelf  ; 
But  consistency  still  wuz  a  part  of  his  plan, — 
He's  ben  true  to  one  party, — an'  thet  is  himself  ;— 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

Gineral  C.  he  goes  in  fer  the  war  ; 

He  don't  vally  principle  more  'n  an  old  cud  ; 
Wut  did  God  make  us  raytional  creetnrs  fer, 
But  glory  an'  gunpowder,  plunder  an'  blood  ? 
So  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  he  shall  vote  fer  Gineral  C. 

We  were  gittin'  on  nicely  up  here  to  our  village, 
With  good  old  idees  o'  wut's  right  an'  wut  ain't, 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  63 

We  kind  o'  thought   Christ  went    agin  war  an*  pil 
lage, 

An'  thet  epplyetts  worn't  the  best  mark  of  a  saint ; 
But  John  P. 
Kobinson  he 
Sez  this  kind  o'  thing's  an  exploded  idee. 

The  side  of  our  country  must  oilers  be  took, 

An'  Presidunt  Polk,  you  know,  he  is  our  country  ; 
An'  the  angel  thet  writes  all  our  sins  in  a  book 
Puts  the  debit  to  him,  an'  to  us  the  per  contry  ; 
An'  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  this  is  his  view  o'  the  thing  to  a  T. 

Parson  Wilbur  he  calls  all  these  argimunts  lies  ; 

Sez    they  're  nothin'    on    airth   but   jest  fee,  faw, 

fum  ; 

An'  thet  all  this  big  talk  of  our  destinies 
Is  half  on  it  ignorance,  an  't'other  half  rum  ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 

Sez  it  ain't  no  sech  thing  ;  an',  of  course,  so  must 
we. 

Parson  Wilbur  sez  he  never  heerd  in  his  life 
Thet  th'  Apostles  rigged    out   in    their  swaller-tail 

coats, 

An*  marched  round  in  front  of  a  drum  an'  a  fife, 
To  git  some   on  'em  office,  an'  some  on  'em  votes  ; 
But  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  they  did  n't  know  everythin'  down  in  Judee, 


64  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

"Wai,  it  's  a  marcy  we  've  gut  folks  to  tell  us 

The  rights  an'  the  wrongs  o'  these  matters,  I  vow, — . 
God  sends  country  lawyers,  an'  other  wise  fellers, 
To  drive  the  world's  team,  wen  it  gits  in  a  slough  ; 
Fer  John  P. 
Robinson  he 
Sez  the  world  '11  go  right,  ef  he  hollers  out  Gee  ! 

[The  attentive  reader  will  doubtless  have  perceived  in 
the  foregoing  poem  an  allusion  to  that  pernicious  sen 
timent, — "  Our  country,  right  or  wrong/'  It  is  an 
abuse  of  language  to  call  a  certain  portion  of  land,  much 
more,  certain  personages  elevated  for  the  time  being  to 
high  station,  our  country.  I  would  not  sever  nor  loosen 
a  single  one  of  those  ties  by  which  we  are  united  to  the 
spot  of  our  birth,  nor  minish  by  a  tittle  the  respect 
due  to  the  Magistrate.  I  love  our  own  Bay  State  too 
well  to  do  the  one,  and  as  for  the  other,  I  have  myself 
for  nigh  forty  years  exercised,  however  unworthily,  the 
function  of  Justice  of  the  Peace,  having  been  called 
thereto  by  the  unsolicited  kindness  of  that  most  excellent 
man  and  upright  patriot,  Caleb  Strong.  Patrice  fumus 
igne  aheno  luculentior  is  best  qualified  with  this, —  Ubi 
libertas,  ibi  patria.  We  are  inhabitants  of  two  worlds, 
and  owe  a  double,  but  not  a  divided,  allegiance.  In  vir 
tue  of  our  clay,  this  little  ball  of  earth  exacts  a  certain 
loyalty  of  us,  while,  in  our  capacity  as  spirits,  we  are 
admitted  citizens  of  an  invisible  and  holier  fatherland. 
There  is  a  patriotism  of  the  soul  whose  claim  absolves 
us  from  our  other  and  terrene  fealty.  Our  true  coun 
try  is  that  ideal  realm  which  we  represent  to  ourselves 
under  the  names  of  religion,  duty,  and  the  like.  Our 
terrestrial  organizations  are  but  far-off  approaches  to  so 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  65 

fair  a  model,  and  they  all  are  verily  traitors  who  resist 
not  any  attempt  to  divert  them  from  this  their  original 
intendment.  When,  therefore,  one  would  have  us  to 
fling  up  our  caps  and  shout  with  the  multitude, — "  0^l»• 
country,  however  bounded!"  he  demands  of  us  that  we 
sacrifice  the  larger  to  the  less,  the  higher  to  the  lower, 
and  that  we  yield  to  the  imaginary  claims  of  a  few  acres 
of  soil  our  duty  and  privilege  as  liegemen  of  Truth. 
Our  true  country  is  bounded  on  the  north  and  the  south, 
on  the  east  and  the  west,  by  Justice,  and  when  she  over 
steps  that  invisible  boundary-line  by  so  much  as  a  hair's 
breadth,  she  ceases  to  be  our  mother,  and  chooses  rather 
to  be  looked  upon  quasi  noverca.  That  is  a  hard  choice, 
when  our  earthly  love  of  country  calls  upon  us  to 
tread  one  path  and  our  duty  points  us  to  another.  We 
must  make  as  noble  and  becoming  an  election  as  did 
Penelope  between  Icarius  and  Ulysses.  Veiling  our 
faces,  we  must  take  silently  the  hand  of  Duty  to  follow 
her. 

Shortly  after  the  publication  of  the  foregoing  poem, 
there  appeared  some  comments  upon  it  in  one  of  the 
public  prints  which  seemed  to  call  for  some  animadver 
sion.  I  accordingly  addressed  to  Mr.  Buckingham,  of 
the  Boston  Courier,  the  following  letter. 

"  JAALAM,  November  4,  1847. 
"  To  the  Editor  of  the  Courier : 

"RESPECTED  SIR, — Calling  at  the  post  office  this 
morning,  our  worthy  and  efficient  postmaster  offered 
for  my  perusal  a  paragraph  in  the  Boston  Morning 
Post  of  the  3d  instant,  wherein  certain  effusions  of  the 
pastoral  muse  are  attributed  to  the  pen  of  Mr.  James 
Russell  Lowell.  For  aught  I  know  or  can  affirm  to 
S 


66  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

the  contrary,  this  Mr.  Lowell  may  be  a  very  deserving 
person  and  a  youth  of  parts  (though  I  have  seen  verses 
of  his  which  I  could  never  rightly  understand)  ;  and  if 
he  be  such,  he,  I  am  certain,  as  well  as  I,  would  be 
free  from  any  proclivity  to  appropriate  to  himself  what 
ever  of  credit  (or  discredit)  may  honestly  belong  to  an 
other.  I  am  confident,  that,  in  penning  these  few 
lines,  I  am  only  forestalling  a  disclaimer  from  that 
young  gentleman,  whose  silence  hitherto,  when  rumor 
pointed  to  himward,  has  excited  in  my  bosom  mingled 
emotions  of  sorrow  and  surprise.  Well  may  my  young 
parishioner,  Mr.  Biglow,  exclaim  with  the  poet. 

4  Sic  vos  non  vobis,'  &c.  ; 

though,  in  saying  this,  I  would  not  convey  the  impres 
sion  that  he  is  a  proficient  in  the  Latin  tongue, — the 
tongue,  I  might  add,  of  a  Horace  and  a  Tully. 

1 '  Mr..  B.  does  not  employ  his  pen,  I  can  safely  say, 
for  any  lucre  of  worldly  gain,  or  to  be  exalted  by  the 
carnal  plaudits  of  men,  digito  monstrari,  &c.  He  does 
not  wait  upon  Providence  for  mercies,  and  in  his  heart 
mean  merces.  But  I  should  esteem  myself  as  verily  de 
ficient  in  my  duty  (who  am  his  friend  and  in  some 
unworthy  sort  his  spiritual  fidus  Achates,  &c.),  if  I  did 
not  step  forward  to  claim  for  him  whatever  measure  of 
applause  might  be  assigned  to  him  by  the  judicious. 

"  If  this  were  a  fitting  occasion,  I  might  venture 
here  a  brief  dissertation  touching  the  manner  and  kind 
of  my  young  friend's  poetry.  But  I  dubitate  whether 
this  abstrnser  sort  of  speculation  (though  enlivened  by 
some  apposite  instances  from  Aristophanes)  would 
sufficiently  interest  your  oppidan  readers.  As  regards 
their  satirical  tone,  and  their  plainness  of  speech,  I 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  67 

will  only  say,  that,  in  my  pastoral  experience,  I  have 
found  that  the  Arch-Enemy  loves  nothing  better  than 
to  be  treated  as  a  religious,  moral,  and  intellectual 
being,  and  that  there  is  no  apage  Sathanas  I  so  potent 
as  ridicule.  But  it  is  a  kind  of  weapon  that  must 
have  a  button  of  good-nature  on  the  point  of  it. 

"  The  productions  of  Mr.  B.  have  been  stigmatized 
in  some  quarters  as  unpatriotic ;  but  I  can  vouch  that 
he  loves  his  native  soil  with  that  hearty,  though  dis 
criminating,  attachment  which  springs  from  an  inti 
mate  social  intercourse  of  many  years'  standing.  In 
the  ploughing  season,  no  one  has  a  deeper  share  in  the 
well-being  of  the  country  than  he.  If  Dean  Swift  were 
right  in  saying  that  he  who  makes  two  blades  of  grass 
grow  where  one  grew  before  confers  a  greater  benefit 
on  the  state  than  he  who  taketh  a  city,  Mr.  B.  might 
exhibit  a  fairer  claim  to  the  Presidency  than  General 
Scott  himself.  I  think  that  some  of  those  disinterested 
lovers  of  the  hard-handed  democracy,  whose  fingers 
have  never  touched  anything  rougher  than  the  dollars 
of  our  common  country,  would  hesitate  to  compare 
palms  with  him.  It  would  do  your  heart  good,  re 
spected  Sir,  to  see  that  young  man  mow.  He  cuts  a 
cleaner  and  wider  swarth  than  any  in  his  town. 

"  But  it  is  time  for  me  to  be  at  my  Post.  It  is  very 
clear  that  my  young  friend's  shot  has  struck  the  lintel, 
for  the  Post  is  shaken  (Amos  ix.  1).  The  editor  of 
that  paper  is  a  strenuous  advocate  of  the  Mexican  war, 
and  a  colonel,  as  I  am  given  to  understand.  I  presume, 
that,  being  necessarily  absent  in  Mexico,  he  has  left  his 
journal  in  some  less  judicious  hands.  At  any  rate  the 
Post  has  been  too  swift  on  this  occasion.  It  could 
hardly  have  cited  a  more  incontrovertible  line  from 


68  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

any  poem  than  that  which  it  has  selected  for  animad 
version,  namely, — 

'  We  kind  o'  thought  Christ  went  agin  war  an'  pillage.' 

"  If  the  Post  maintains  the  converse  of  this  propo 
sition,  it  can  hardly  be  considered  as  a  safe  guidepost 
for  the  moral  and  religious  portions  of  its  party,  how 
ever  many  other  excellent  qualities  of  a  post  it  may  be 
blessed  with.  There  is  a  sign  in  London  on  which  is 
painted, — '  The  Green  Man/  It  would  do  very  well  as 
a  portrait  of  any  individual  who  would  support  so  un- 
scriptural  a  thesis.  As  regards  the  language  of  the 
line  in  question,  I  am  bold  to  say  that  He  who  readeth 
the  hearts  of  men  will  not  account  any  dialect  unseemly 
which  conveys  a  sound  and  pious  sentiment.  I  could 
wish  that  such  sentiments  were  more  common,  how 
ever  uncouthly  expressed.  Saint  Ambrose  affirms,  that 
veritas  a  quocunque  (why  not,  then,  quomodocunque  9) 
dicatur  a  spiritu  sancto  est.  Digest  also  this  of  Bax 
ter  : — < The  plainest  words  are  the  most  profitable 
oratory  in  the  weightiest  matters." 

' '  When  the  paragraph  in  question  was  shown  to  Mr. 
Biglow,  the  only  part  of  it  which  seemed  to  give  him 
any  dissatisfaction  was  that  which  classed  him  with  the 
"Whig  party.  He  says,  that,  if  resolutions  are  a  nour 
ishing  kind  of  diet,  that  party  must  be  in  a  very  hearty 
and  flourishing  condition ;  for  that  they  have  quietly 
eaten  more  good  ones  of  their  own  baking  than  he  could 
have  conceived  to  be  possible  without  repletion.  He 
has  been  for  some  years  past  (I  regret  to  say)  an  ardent 
opponent  of  those  sound  doctrines  of  protective  policy 
which  form  so  prominent  a  portion  of  the  creed  of  that 
party.  I  confess,  that,  in  some  discussions  which  I 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  (J9 

have  had  with  him  ou  this  point  in  iny  study,  he  has 
displayed  a  vein  of  obstinacy  which  I  had  not  hitherto 
detected  in  his  composition.  He  is  also  (horresco  ref- 
erens  infected  in  no  small  measure  with  the  peculiar 
notions  of  a  print  called  the  Liberator,  whose  heresies 
I  take  every  proper  opportunity  of  combating,  and  of 
which,  I  thank  God,  I  have  never  read  a  single  line. 

"  I  did  not  see  Mr.  B.'s  verses  until  they  appeared 
in  print,  and  there  is  certainly  one  thing  in  them  which 
I  consider  highly  improper.  I  allude  to  the  personal 
references  to  myself  by  name.  To  confer  notoriety  on 
an  humble  individual  who  is  laboring  quietly  in  his  vo 
cation,  and  who  keeps  his  cloth  as  free  as  he  can  from 
the  dust  of  the  political  arena  (though  vce  milii  si  non 
evangelizavero),  is  no  doubt  an  indecorum.  The  senti 
ments  which  he  attributes  to  me  I  will  not  deny  to  be 
mine.  They  were  embodied,  though  in  a  different 
form,  in  a  discourse  preached  upon  the  last  day  of 
public  fasting,  and  were  acceptable  to  my  entire  people 
(of  whatever  political  views),  except  the  postmaster, 
who  dissented  ex  officio.  I  observe  that  you  sometimes 
devote  a  portion  of  your  paper  to  a  religious  summary. 
I  should  be  well  pleased  to  furnish  a  copy  of  my  dis 
course  for  insertion  in  this  department  of  your  instruc 
tive  journal.  By  omitting  the  advertisements,  it  might 
easily  be  got  within  the  limits  of  a  single  number,  and 
I  venture  to  insure  you  the  sale  of  some  scores  of  copies 
in  this  town.  I  will  cheerfully  render  myself  respon 
sible  for  ten.  It  might  possibly  be  advantageous  to 
issue  it  as  an  extra.  But  perhaps  you  will  not  esteem 
it  an  object,  and  I  will  not  press  it.  My  offer  does  not 
spring  from  any  weak  desire  of  seeing  my  name  in 
print ;  for  I  can  enjoy  this  satisfaction  at  any  time  by 


70  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

turning  to  the  Triennial  Catalogue  of  the  University, 
where  it  also  possesses  that  added  emphasis  of  Italics 
with  which  those  of  my  calling  are  distinguished. 

"  I  would  simply  add,  that  I  continue  to  fit  ingenu 
ous  youth  for  college,  and  that  I  have  two  spacious  and 
airy  sleeping  apartments  at  this  moment  unoccupied. 
Ingenuas  didicisse,  &c.     Terms,  which  vary  according 
to  the  circumstances  of  the  parents,  may  be  known  on 
application  to  me  by  letter,  post  paid.     In  all  cases  the 
lad  will  be  expected  to  fetch  his  own  towels.     This 
rule,  Mrs.  W.  desires  me  to  add,  has  no  exceptions. 
'•'  Respectfully,  your  obedient  servant, 
"  HOMER  WILBUR,  A.  M." 

"  P.  S.  Perhaps  the  last  paragraph  may  look  like 
an  attempt  to  obtain  the  insertion  of  my  circular  gratui 
tously.  If  it  should  appear  to  you  in  that  light,  I  de 
sire  that  you  would  erase  it,  or  charge  for  it  at  the 
usual  rates,  and  deduct  the  amount  from  the  proceeds 
in  your  hands  from  the  sale  of  my  discourse,  when  it 
shall  be  printed.  My  circular  is  much  longer  and 
more  explicit,  and  will  be  forwarded  without  charge  to 
any  who  may  desire  it.  It  has  been  very  neatly  ex 
ecuted  011  a  letter  sheet,  by  a  very  deserving  printer, 
who  attends  upon  my  ministry,  and  is  a  creditable  speci 
men  of  the  typographic  art.  I  have  one  hung  over  my 
mantelpiece  in  a  neat  frame,  where  it  makes  a  beauti 
ful  and  appropriate  ornament,  and  balances  the  profile 
of  Mrs.  W.,  cut  with  her  toes  by  the  young  lady  born 
without  arms. 

"  H.  W." 

I  have  in  the  foregoing  letter  mentioned  General 
Scott  in  connection  with  the  Presidency,  because  I 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  71 

have  been  given  to  understand  that  he  has  blown  to 
pieces  and  otherwise  caused  to  be  destroyed  more  Mexi- 
icans  than  any  other  commander.  His  claim  would 
therefore  be  deservedly  considered  the  strongest.  Until 
accurate  returns  of  the  Mexicans  killed,  wounded,  and 
maimed  be  obtained,  it  will  be  difficult  to  settle  these 
nice  points  of  precedence.  Should  it  prove  that  any 
other  officer  has  been  more  meritorious  and  destructive 
than  General  S.,  and  has  thereby  rendered  himself 
more  worthy  of  the  confidence  and  support  of  the  con 
servative  portion  of  our  community,  I  shall  cheerfully 
insert  his  name,  instead  of  that  of  General  S.,  in  a 
future  edition.  It  may  be  thought,  likewise,  that 
General  S.  has  invalidated  his  claims  by  too  much  at 
tention  to  the  decencies  of  apparel,  and  the  habits 
belonging  to  a  gentleman.  These  abstruser  points  of 
statesmanship  are  beyond  my  scope.  I  wonder  not  that 
successful  military  achievement  should  attract  the 
admiration  of  the  multitude.  Eather  do  I  rejoice 
with  wonder  to  behold  how  rapidly  this  sentiment  is 
losing  its  hold  upon  the  popular  mind.  It  is  related 
of  Thomas  Warton,  the  second  of  that  honored  name 
who  held  the  office  of  Poetry  Professor  at  Oxford,  that, 
when  one  wished  to  find  him,  being  absconded,  as  was 
his  wont,  in  some  obscure  alehouse,  he  was  counselled 
to  traverse  the  city  with  a  drum  and  fife,  the  sound  of 
which  inspiring  music  would  be  sure  to  draw  the 
Doctor  from  his  retirement  into  the  street.  We  are 
all  more  or  less  bitten  with  this  martial  insanity. 

Nescio  qud  dulcedine cunctos  ducit.     I  confess 

to  some  infection  of  that  itch  myself.  When  I  see  a 
Brigadier-General  maintaining  his  insecure  elevation 
in  the  saddle  under  the  severe  fire  of  the  training-field , 


72  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

and  when  I  remember  that  some  military  enthusiasts; 
through  haste,  inexperience,  or  an  over-desire  to  lend 
reality  to  those  fictitious  combats,  will  sometimes  dis 
charge  their  ramrods,  I  cannot  but  admire,  while  I  de 
plore,  the  mistaken  devotion  of  those  heroic  officers. 
Semel  insanivimus  omnes.  I  was  myself,  during  the 
late  war  with  Great  Britain,  chaplain  of  a  regiment, 
which  was  fortunately  never  called  to  active  military 
duty.  I  mention  this  circumstance  with  regret  rather 
than  pride.  Had  I  been  summoned  to  actual  warfare, 
I  trust  that  I  might  have  been  strengthened  to  bear  my 
self  after  the  manner  of  that  reverend  father  in  our 
New  England  Israel,  Dr.  Benjamin  Colman,  Avho,  as 
we  are  told  in  Turell's  life  of  him,  when  the  vessel  in 
which  he  had  taken  passage  for  England  was  attacked 
by  a  French  privateer,  "  fought  like  a  philosopher  and 
a  Christian,  ....  and  prayed  all  the  while  he  charged 
and  fired."  As  this  note  is  already  long.  I  shall  not 
here  enter  upon  a  discussion  of  the  question,  whether 
Christians  may  lawfully  be  soldiers.  I  think  it  suffi 
ciently  evident,  that,  during  the  first  two  centuries 
of  the  Christian  era.  at  least,  the  two  professions 
were  esteemed  incompatible.  Consult  Jortin  on  this 
head.—  H.  W. 


NO.  nr. 

REMARKS  OF  INCREASE  D.  o'PHACE,  ESQUIRE,  AT  AX 
EXTRUMPERY  CAUCUS  IX  STATE  STREET,  REPORTED 
By  MR.  H.  BIGLOW. 

[THE  ingenious  reader  will  at  once  understand  that 
no  such  speech  as  the  following  was  ever  totidem  verbis 
pronounced.  But  there  are  simpler  and  less  guarded 
wits,  for  the  satisfying  of  which  such  an  explanation 
may  be  needful.  For  there  are  certain  invisible  lines, 
which  as  Truth  successively  overpasses,  she  becomes 
Untruth  to  one  and  another,  of  us,  as  a  large  river, 
flowing  from  one  kingdom  into  another,  sometimes 
takes  a  new  name,  albeit  the  waters  undergo  no  change, 
how  small  soever.  There  is,  moreover,  a  truth  of  fic 
tion  more  veracious  than  the  truth  of  fact,  as  that  of 
the  Poet,  which  represents  to  us  things  and  events  as 
they  ought  to  be,  rather  than  servilely  copies  them  as 
they  are  imperfectly  imaged  in  the  crooked  and  smoky 
glass  of  our  mundane  affairs.  It  is  this  which  makes 
the  speech  of  Antonius,  though  originally  spoken  in  no 
wider  a  forum  than  the  brain  of  Shakspeare,  more 
historically  valuable  than  that  other  which  Appian 
has  reported,  by  as  much  as  the  understanding  of  the 
Englishman  was  more  comprehensive  than  that  of  the 
Alexandrian.  Mr.  Biglow,  in  the  present  instance, 
has  only  made  use  of  a  license  assumed  by  all  the  his 
torians  of  antiquity,  who  put  into  the  mouths  of  various 


74  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

characters  such  words  as  seem  to  them  most  fitting  to 
the  occasion  and  to  the  speaker.  If  it  be  objected 
that  no  such  oration  could  ever  have  been  delivered,  I 
answer,  that  there  are  few  assemblages  for  speech-mak 
ing  which  do  not  better  deserve  the  title  of  Parliamen- 
tum  Indoctorum  than  did  the  sixth  Parliament  of 
Henry  the  Fourth,  and  that  men  still  continue  to  have 
as  much  faith  in  the  Oracle  of  Fools  as  ever  Pantagruel 
had.  Howell,  in  his  letters,  recounts  a  merry  tale  of 
a  certain  ambassador  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  who,  having 
written  two  letters,  one  to  her  Majesty  and  the  other 
to  his  wife,  directed  them  at  cross-purposes,  so  that  the 
Queen  was  beducked  and  bedeared  and  requested  to  send 
a  change  of  hose,  and  the  wife  was  beprincessed  ana 
otherwise  unwontedly  besuperlatived,  till  the  one  feared 
for  the  wits  of  her  ambassador,  the  other  for  those  of 
her  husband.  In  like  manner  it  may  be  presumed  that 
our  speaker  has  misdirected  some  of  his  thoughts,  and 
given  to  the  whole  theatre  what  he  would  have  wished 
to  confide  only  to  a  select  auditory  at  the  back  of  the 
curtain.  For  it  is  seldom  that  we  can  get  any  frank 
utterance  from  men,  who  address,  for  the  most  part,  a 
Buncombe  either  in  this  world  or  the  next.  As  for 
their  audiences,  it  may  be  truly  said  of  our  people, 
that  they  enjoy  one  political  institution  in  common 
with  the  ancient  Athenians  :  I  mean  a  certain  profitless 
kind  of  ostracism,  wherewith,  nevertheless,  they  seem 
hitherto  well  enough  content.  For  in  Presidential 
elections,  and  other  affairs  of  the  sort,  whereas  I  ob 
serve  that  the  oysters  fall  to  the  lot  of  comparatively 
few,  the  shells  (such  as  the  privileges  of  voting  as  they 
are  told  to  do  by  the  ostrivori  aforesaid,  and  of  huzzaing 
at  public  meetings)  are  very  liberally  distributed 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  75 

among  the  people,  as  being  their  prescriptive  and  quite 
sufficient  portion. 

The  occasion  of  the  speech  is  supposed  to  be  Mr. 
Palfrey's  refusal  to  vote  for  the  Whig  candidate  for  the 
Speakership. — H.  W.] 

No  ?    Hez  he  ?    He  hain't,  though  ?    Wut  ?    Voted 

agin  him  ? 
Ef  the  bird  of  our  country  could  ketch  him,  she'd 

skin  him  ; 

I  seem  's  though  I  see  her,  with  wrath  in  each  quill, 
Lake  a  chancery  lawyer,  afilin'  her  bill, 
An'  grindin'  her  talents  ez  sharp  ez  all  nater, 
To  pounce  like  a  writ  on  the  back  o'  the  traiter. 
Forgive  me,  my  friends,  ef  I  seem  to  be  het, 
But  a  crisis  like  this  must  with  vigor  be  met ; 
Wen  an  Arnold  the  star-spangled  banner  bestains, 
Holl  Fourth  o'  Julys  seem  to  bile  in  my  veins. 

Who  ever  'd  ha'  thought  sech  a  pisonous  rig 
Would  be  run  by  a  chap  thet  wuz  chose  fer  a  Wig  ? 
"  We  knowed  wut  his  principles   wuz  'fore  we  sent 

him"? 

Wut  wuz  ther  in  them  from  this  vote  to  pervent  him  ? 
A  marciful  Providunce  fashioned  us  holler 
0'  purpose  thet  we  might  our  principles  swaller  ; 
It  can  hold  any  quantity  on  'em,  the  belly  can, 
An'  bring  'em  up  ready  fer  use  like  the  pelican, 
Or  more  like  the  kangaroo,  who  (wich  is  stranger) 
Puts  her  family  into  her  pouch  wen  there  's  danger. 
Ain't  principle  precious  ?  then,  who  's  goin'  to  use  it 
Wen  there 's  resk  o'  some  chap's  gittin'  up  to  abuse  it  ? 


76  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  can't  tell  the  wy  011  :i,  but  uothiu'  is  so  sure 
Ez  thet  principle  kind  o'  gits  spiled  by  exposure  ;  * 
A  man  thet  lets  all  sorts  o'  folks  git  a  sight  on  't 
Ough'  to  hev  it  all  took  right  away,  every  mite  on 't ; 
Ef  he  can't  keep  it  to  himself  when  it 's  wise  to, 
He  ain't  one  it 's  fit  to  trust  nothin'  so  nice  to. 

Besides,  ther  's  a  wonderful  power  in  latitude 
To  shift  a  man's  morril  relations  an'  attitude  ; 
Some  flossifers  think  thet  a  fakkilty  's  granted 
The  minnit  it's  proved  to  be  thoroughly  wanted, 
Thet  a  change  o'  demand  makes  a  change  o'  condi 
tion, 

An*  thet  everythin'  's  nothin'  except  by  position ; 
Ez,  fer  instance,  thet  rubber-trees  fust  begun  bearin' 
Wen  p'litickle  conshunces  come  into  wearin', — 
Thet  the  fears  of  a  monkey,  whose  holt  chanced  to 

fail, 

Drawed  the  vertibry  out  to  a  prehensile  tail ; 
So,  wen  one's  chose  to  Congriss,  ez  soon  ez  he 's  in  it, 
A  collar  grows  right  round  his  neck  in  a  minnit, 
An'  sartin  it  is  thet  a  man  cannot  be  strict 
In  bein'  himself,  wen  he  gits  to  the  Deestrict, 

*  The  speaker  is  of  a  different  mind  from  Tully,  who,  in  his 
recently  discovered  tractate  De  Rupublica,  tells  us, — Nee  vero 
haberc  vietutem  satis  est,  quasi  artem  aliqam,  nisi  utare,  and 
from  our  Milton,  who  says, — "I  cannot  praise  a  fugitive  and 
cloistered  virtue,  unexercised  and  unbreathed,  that  never 
sallies  out  and  sees  her  adversary,  but  slinks  out  of  the  race 
where  that  immortal  garland  is  to  he  run  for,  not  without 
dust  and  heat." — Areop.  He  had  taken  the  words  out  of  the 
Roman's  mouth,  without  knowing  it,  and  might  well  exclaim 
with  Austin  (if  a  saint's  name  may  stand  sponsor  for  a  curse), 
Pereant  qui  ante  nos  nostra  dixerint ! — H.  W. 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  77 

Fer  a  coat  tliet  sets  wal  here  in  ole  Massachusetts, 
Wen  it  gits  on  to  Washinton,  somehow  askew  sets. 

Kesolves,  do  you  say,  o'  the  Springfield  Convention  ? 

Thet's  percisely  the  pint  I  was  goin'  to  mention  ; 

Eesolves  air  a  thing  we  most  gen'ally  keep  ill, 

They  're  a  cheap  kind  o'  dust  fer  the  eyes  o'  the  people  ; 

A  parcel  o'  delligits  jest  git  together 

An'  chat  fer  a  spell  o'  the  crops  an'  the  weather, 

Then,  comin'  to  order,  they  squabble  awile 

An'  let  off  the  speeches  they  're  ferful  '11  spile  ; 

Then — Eesolve, — That  we  wunt  hev  an  inch  o'  slave 

territory  ; 

Thet  President  Folk's  holl  perceedins  air  very  tory  ; 
Thet  the  war 's  a  damned  war,  an'  them  thet  enlist  in  it 
Should  hev  a  cravat  with  a  dreffle  tight  twist  in  it  ; 
Thet  the  war  is  a  war  fer  the  spreadin'  o'  slavery  ; 
Thet   our   army   desarves   our   best   thanks   fer  their 

bravery  ; 

Thet  we  're  the  original  friends  o'  the  nation, 
All  the  rest  air  a  paltry  an'  base  fabrication  ; 
Thet  we  highly  respect  Messrs.  A,  B,  an'  C, 
An'  ez  deeply  despise  Messrs.  E,  F,  an'  Gr. 

In  this  way  they  go  to  the  eend  o'  the  chapter, 
An'  then  they  bust  out  in  a  kind  of  a  raptur 
About  their  own  vartoo,  an'  folk's  stone-blindness 
To  the  men  thet  'ould  actilly  do  'em  a  kindness, — 
The  American  eagle,  the  Pilgrims  thet  landed, 
Till  on  ole  Plymouth  Rock  they  git  finally  stranded. 
Wal,  the   people   they  listen   and   say,  "  Thet 's  the 

ticket ; 
Ez  fer  Mexico,  'tain't  no  great  glory  to  lick  it, 


78  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

But 't  would  be  a  darned  shame  to  go  pullin'  o'  triggers 

To  extend  the  aree  of  abusin'  the  niggers." 

So  they  march  in  percessious,  an'  git  up  hooraws, 

An'  tramp  thru  the  mud  fer  the  good  o'  the  cause, 

An*  think  they  're  a  kind  o'  fulfillin'  the  prophecies, 

Wen  they  're  on'y  jest  changin'  the  holders  of  offices: 

Ware  A  sot  afore,  B  is  comf'tably  seated, 

One  humbug  's  victor'ous,  an'  t'other  defeated. 

Each  honnable  doughface  gits  jest  wut  he  axes, 

An'  the  people — their  annooal  soft  sodder  an'  taxes. 

Now,  to  keep  unimpaired  all  these  glorious  feeturs 

Thet  characterize  morril  an'  reasonin'  creeturs, 

Thet  give  every  paytriot  all  he  can  cram, 

Thet  oust  the  untrustworthy  Presidunt  Flam, 

And  stick  honest  Presidunt  Sham  in  his  place, 

To  the  manifest  gain  o'  the  holl  human  race, 

An'  to  some  indervidgewals  on  't  in  par  tickler, 

Who    love  Public    Opinion  an'   know   how  to  tickle 

her, — 

I  say  thet  a  party  with  great  aims  liks  these 
Must  stick  jest  ez  close  ez  a  hive  full  o'  bees. 

I  'm  willin'  a  man  should  go  tollable  strong 

Agin  wrong  in  the  abstract,  fer  thet  kind  o'  wrong 

Is  oilers  unpop'lar  an'  never  gits  pitied, 

Because  it 's  a  crime  no  one  never  committed  ; 

But  he  mus'  n't  be  hard  on  partickler  sins, 

Coz  then  he'll  be  kickin'  the  people's  own  shins  ; 

On'y  look  at  the  Demmercrats,  see  wut  they  've  done 

Jest  simply  by  stickin'  together  like  f  nn  ; 

They  've  sucked  us  right  into  a  mis'able  war 

Thet  no  one  on  airth  ain't  responsible  for  ; 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  79 

They  've  run  us  a  huuderd  cool  millions  in  debt, 

(An'  fer  Demmercrat  Homers  ther  's  good  plums  left 

jet); 

They  talk  agin  tayriffs,  but  act  fer  a  high  one, 
An'  so  coax  all  parties  to  build  up  their  Zion ; 
To  the  people  they  're  oilers  ez  slick  ez  molasses, 
An'  butter  their  bread  on  both  sides  with  The  Masses, 
Half  o'  whom  they  've  persuaded,  by  way  of  a  joke, 
Thet  Washinton's  mantelpiece  fell  upon  Polk. 

Now  all  o'  these  blessins  the  Wigs  might  enjoy, 
Ef  they  'd  gumption  enongh  the  right  means  to  imploy  ;  * 
Fer  the  silver  spoon  born  in  Uermocracy's  mouth 
Is  a  kind  of  a  scringe  thet  they  hev  to  the  South  ; 
Their  masters  can  cnss  'em  an'  kick  'em  an'  wale  'em, 
An'  they  notice  it  less  'an  the  ass  did  to  Balaam  ; 
In  this  way  they  screw  into  second-rate  offices 
Wich  the  slaveholder  thinks  'ould  substract  too  much 

off  his  ease  ; 

The  file-leaders,  I  mean,  du,  fer  they,  by  their  wiles, 
Unlike  the  old  viper,  grow  fat  on  their  files. 
Wai,  the  "Wigs  hev  been  tryin'  to  grab  all  this  prey 

frum  'em 
An'    to  hook    his   nice   spoon   o'    good    fortin'  away 

frum  'em, 

An'  they  might  ha'  succeeded,  ez  likely  ez  not 
In  lickin'  the  Demmercrats  all  round  the  lot, 
Ef  it  warn't  thet,  wile  all  faithful  Wigs  were  their 

knees  on, 

*  That  was  a  pithy  saying  of  Persius,  and  fits  our  politicians 
without  a  wrinkle, — Magisterartis,ingeniiquelargitor  venter, 
— H.  W. 


80  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Some  stuffy  old  codger  would  holler  out, —  "  Treason  1 
You  must  keep  a  sharp  eye  on  a  dog  thet  hez  bit  you 

once, 

An'  /ain't  a  goin'  to  cheat  my  constitoounts," — 
Wen  every  fool  kuovvs  thet  a  man  represents 
Not  the  fellers  thet  sent  him,  but  them  on  the  fence, — 
Impartially  ready  to  jump  either  side 
An'  make  the  fust  use  of  a  turn  o'  the  tide, — 
The  waiters  on  Providunce  here  in  the  city, 
Who  compose  wut  they  call  a  State  Centerl  Committy. 
Constitoounts  air  henny  to  help  a  man  in, 
But  arterwards  don't  weigh  the  heft  of  a  pin. 
Wy,  the  people  can't  all  live  on  Uncle  Sam's  pus, 
So  they  've  nothin'  to  du  with  't  fer  better  or  wus  ; 
It 's  the  folks  thet  air  kind  o'  brought  up  to  depend 

on't 
Thet  hev  any  consarn  in  't,  an'  thet  is  the  end  on  't. 


Now  here  wnz  New  England  ahevin'  the  honor 

Of  a  chance  at  the  Speakership  showered  upon  her  ; — 

Do  you  say, — "  She  don't  want  no  more  Speakers,  but 

fewer  ; 

She's  hed  plenty  o'  them,  wut  she  wants  is  a  doer"  f 
Fer  the  matter  o'  thet,  it 's  notorous  in  town 
Thet  her  own  representatives  du  her  quite  brown. 
But  thet  's  nothin'  to  du  with  it  ;  wut  right  hed  Pal 
frey 

To  mix  himself  up  with  fanatical  small  fry  ? 
Warn't  we  gittin'  on  prime  with  our  hot  an'  cold  blowin', 
Acondemnin'  the  war  wilst  we  kep*  it  agoin*  ? 
We'd  assumed  with  gret  skill  a  commandin'  position, 
On  this  side  or  thet,  no  one  could  n't  tell  wich  one, 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  gl 

So,  wutever  side  wipped,  we  'd  a  chance  at  the  plunder 
An'  could  sue  fer  infringin'  our  paytented  thunder  ; 
We  were  ready  to  vote  fer  whoever  wuz  eligible, 
Ef  on  all  pints  at  issoo  he  'd  stay  unintelligible. 
Wai,  sposin'  we  hed  to  gulp  down  our  perfessions, 
We  were  ready  to  come  out  next  mornin'  with  fresh 

ones  ; 

Besides,  ef  we  did,  't  was  our  business  alone, 
Fer  could  n't  we  du  wut  we  would  with  our  own  ? 
An'  ef  a  man  can,  wen  pervisions  hev  riz  so, 
Eat  up  his  own  words,  it 's  a  marcy  it  is  so. 


Wy,  these  chaps  frum  the  North,   with  back-bones  to 

'em,  darn  'em, 
'Ould  be  wuth  more  'an  Gennle  Tom  Thumb  is  to  Bar- 

num  ; 

Ther's  enough  thet  to  office  on  this  very  plan  grow, 
By  exhibitin'  how  very  small  a  man  can  grow  ; 
But  an  M.  0.  frum  here  oilers  hastens  to  state  he 
Belongs  to  the  order  called  invertebraty, 
Wence  some  gret  filologists  judge  primy  fashy 
Thet  M.  C.  is  M.  T.  by  paronomashy  ; 
An'  these  few  exceptions  air  loosus  naytury 
Folks  'ould  put  down  their  quarters  to  stare  at,  like 

fury. 

It 's  no  use  to  open  the  door  o'  success, 
Ef  a  member  can  bolt  so  fer  nothin'  or  less  ; 
Wy,  all  o'  them  grand  constitootional  pillers 
Our  four  fathers  fetched  with  'em  over  the  billers, 
Them  pillers  the  people  so  soundly  hev  slept  on, 
Wile  to  slav'ry,  invasion,  an'  debt  they  were  swept  on, 
Wile  oui  Destiny  higher  an'  higher  kep'  mounting 

6 


82  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

(Though  I  guess  folks  '11  stare  wen  she  hends  her  ac 
count  in,) 

Ef  members  in  this  way  go  kickin'  agin  'em, 
They  wunt  hev  so  much  ez  a  feather  left  in  'em. 

An',  ez  fer  this  Palfrey,*  we  thought  wen  we  'd  gut 

him  in, 

He  'd  go  kindly  in  wutever  harness  we  put  him  in ; 
Supposin'  we  did  know  thet  he  wuz  a  peace  man  ? 
Doos  he  think  he  can  be  Uncle  Samwell's  policeman, 
An'  wen  Sam  gits  tipsy  an'  kicks  up  a  riot, 
Lead  him  off  to  the  lockup  to  snooze  till  he  's  quiet  ? 
Wy,  the  war  is  a  war  thet  true  paytriots  can  bear,  ef 
It  leads  to  the  fat  promised  land  of  a  tayriff  ; 
We  don't  go  an'  fight  it,  nor  ain't  to  be  driv  on, 
Nor  Demmercrats  nuther,  thet  hev  wut  to  live  on  ; 
Ef  it  ain't  jest  the  thing  thet 's  well  pleasin'  to  God, 
It  makes  us  thought  highly  on  elsewhere  abroad ; 
The  Eooshian  black  eagle  looks  blue  in  his  eerie 
An'  shakes  both  his  heads  wen  he  hears  o*  Monteery  ; 
In  the  Tower  Victory  sets,  all  of  a  fluster, 
An'  reads,    with  locked  doors,  how  we  won   Cherry 

Buster ; 

An'  old  Philip  Lewis — thet  come  an'  kep'  school  here 
Fer  the  mere  sake  o'  scorin'  his  ryalist  ruler 
On  the  tenderest  part  of  our  kings  in  future — 
Hides    his    crown    underneath    an    old    shut   in    his 

bureau, 

Breaks  off  in  his  brags  to  a  suckle  o'  merry  kings, 
How  he  often  hed  hided  young  native  Amerrikins, 

*  There  is  truth  yet  in  this  of  Juvenal, — 

"  D*t  Yeniam  corvis,  vexat  censura  columbas." 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  83 

An',  turnin'  quite  faint  in  the  midst  of  his  fooleries, 
Sneaks  down  stairs  to  bolt  the  front  door  o'  the  Tool- 

eries.  * 

You  say, — "  We  'd  ha'  scared  'em  by  growin'  in  peace, 
A  plaguy  sight  more  then  by  bobberies  like  these  "  ? 
Who  is  it  dares  say  thet  "  our  naytional  eagle 
Wunt  much  longer  be  classed  with  the  birds  thet  air 

regal, 

Coz  theirn  be  hooked  beaks,  an'  she,  arter  this  slaughter, 
'11  bring  back  a  bill  ten  times  longer  'n  she  oug't  to  ?  " 
Wut  's  your  name  ?    Come,  I  see  ye,  you  up-country 

feller, 

You  've  put  me  out  severil  times  with  your  beller  ; 
Out  with  it !     Wut  ?    Biglow  ?    I  say  nothin'  furder, 
Thet  feller  would  like  nothin'  better  'n  a  murder ; 
He  's  a  traiter,  blasphemer,  an'  wut  ruther  worse  is, 
He  puts  all  his  ath'ism  in  dreffle  bad  verses  ; 

*  Jortin  is  willing  to  allow  of  other  miracles  besides  those 
recorded  in  Holy  Writ,  and  why  not  of  other  prophecies  ?  It 
is  granting  too  much  to  Satan  to  suppose  him,  as  divers  of  the 
learned  have  done,  the  inspirer  of  the  ancient  oracles.  Wiser, 
Iesteem.it,  to  give  chance  the  credit  of  the  successful  ones. 
What  is  said  here  of  Louis  Philippe  was  verified  in  some  of  its 
minute  particulars  within  a  few  months'  time.  Enough  to 
have  made  the  fortune  of  Delphi  or  Hammon,  and  no  thanks 
to  Beelzebub  neither !  That  of  Seneca  in  Medea  will  suit 
here : — 

"  Rapida  fortuna  ac  levis, 
Prsecepsque  regno  eripuit,  exsilio  dedit." 

Let  us  allow,  even  to  richly  deserved  misfortune,  our  com 
miseration,  and  be  not  over-hasty  meanwhile  in  our  censure 
of  the  French  people,  left  for  the  first  time  to  govern  them 
selves,  remembering  that  wise  sentence  of  -lEschylus, — 

*Affas  fie  rpavvs  o<ms  av  veov  Kparf,. 

H.  W. 


84  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Socity  ain't  safe  till  sech  monsters  air  out  on  it, 

Eefer  to  the  Post,  ef  you  hev  the  least  doubt  on  it ; 

Wy,  he  goes  agin  war,  agin  indirect  taxes, 

Agin  sellin*  wild  lands  'cept  to  settlers  with  axes, 

Agin  holdin'  o'  slaves,  though  he  knows  it  's  the  corner 

Our  libbaty  rests  on,  the  mis'able  scorner  ! 

In  short,  he  would  wholly  upset  with  his  ravages 

All  thet  keeps  us  above  the  brute  critters  an'  savages, 

An'  pitch  into  all  kinds  o'  briles  an'  confusions 

The  holl  of  our  civilized,  free  institutions  ; 

He  writes  fer  thet  rather  unsafe  print,  the  Courier, 

An'  likely  ez  not  hez  a  squintin'  to  Foorier ; 

I  '11  be ,  thet  is,  I  mean  I  '11  be  blest, 

Ef  I  hark  to  a  word  frum  so  noted  a  pest  ; 
I  shan't  talk  with  him,  my  religion  's  too  fervent. — 
Good  mornin',  my  friends,  I  'm  your  most   humble 
servant. 

[Into  the  question,  whether  the  ability  to  express  our 
selves  in  articulate  language  has  been  productive  of 
more  good  or  evil,  I  shall  not  here  enter  at  large.  The 
two  faculties  of  speech  and  of  speech-making  are  wholly 
diverse  in  their  natures.  By  the  first  we  make  our 
selves  intelligible,  by  the  last  unintelligible,  to  our 
fellows.  It  has  not  seldom  occurred  to  me  (noting 
how  in  our  national  legislature  every  thing  runs  to 
talk,  as  lettuces,  if  the  season  or  the  soil  be  unpropi- 
tious,  shoot  up  lankly  to  seed,  instead  of  forming  hand 
some  heads)  that  Babel  was  the  first  Congress,  the 
earliest  mill  erected  for  the  manufacture  of  gabble.  In 
these  days,  what  with  Town  Meetings,  School  Com 
mittees,  Boards  (lumber)  of  one  kind  and  another, 
Congresses,  Parliaments,  Diets,  Indian  Councils,  Pala- 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  85 

vers,  and  the  like,  there  is  scarce  a  village  which  has 
not  its  factories  of  this  description  driven  by  (milk- 
and-)  water  power.  I  cannot  conceive  the  confusion  of 
tongues  to  have  been  the  curse  of  Babel,  since  I  esteem 
my  ignorance  of  other  languages  as  a  kind  of  Martello- 
tower,  in  which  I  am  safe  from  the  furious  bombard 
ments  of  foreign  garrulity.  For  this  reason  I  have  ever 
preferred  the  study  of  the  dead  languages,  those  primi 
tive  formations  being  Ararats  upon  whose  silent  peaks 
I  sit  secure  and  watch  this  new  deluge  without  fear, 
though  it  rain  figures  (simulacra,  semblances)  of  speech 
forty  days  and  nights  together,  as  it  not  uncommonly 
happens.  Thus  is  my  coat,  as  it  were,  without  but 
tons  by  which  any  but  a  vernacular  wild  bore  can  seize 
me.  Is  it  not  possible  that  the  Shakers  may  intend  to 
convey  a  quiet  reproof  and  hint,  in  fastening  their 
outer  garments  with  hooks  and  eyes  ? 

This  reflection  concerning  Babel,  which  I  find  in  no 
Commentary,  was  first  thrown  upon  my  mind  when  an 
excellent  deacon  of  my  congregation  (being  infected 
with  the  Second  Advent  delusion)  assured  me  that  he 
had  received  a  first  instalment  of  the  gift  of  tongues 
as  a  small  earnest  of  larger  possessions  in  the  like  kind 
to  follow.  For,  of  a  truth,  I  could  not  reconcile  it  with 
my  ideas  of  the  Divine  justice  and  mercy  that  the 
single  wall  which  protected  people  of  other  languages 
from  the  incursions  of  this  otherwise  well-meaning  prop 
agandist  should  be  broken  down. 

In  reading  Congressional  debates,  I  have  fancied, 
that,  after  the  subsidence  of  those  painful  buzzings  in 
the  brain  which  result  from  such  exercises,  I  detected 
a  slender  residuum  of  valuable  information.  I  made 
the  discovery  that  nothing  takes  longer  in  the  saying 


86  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS, 

than  any  thing  else,  for,  as  ex  nihilo  niliilfit,  so  from 
one  polypus  nothing  any  number  of  similar  ones  may  be 
produced.  I  would  recommend  to  the  attention  of 
vivd  voce  debaters  and  controversialists  the  admirable 
example  of  the  monk  Copres,  who,  in  the  fourth  cen 
tury,  stood  for  half  an  hour  in  the  midst  of  a  great  fire, 
and  thereby  silenced  a  Manichagan  antagonist  who  had 
less  of  the  salamander  in  him.  As  for  those  who  quar 
rel  in  print,  I  have  no  concern  with  them  here,  since 
the  eyelids  are  a  Divinely-granted  shield  against  all 
such.  Moreover,  I  have  observed  in  many  modern 
books  that  the  printed  portion  is  becoming  gradually 
smaller,  and  the  number  of  blank  or  fly-leaves  (as  they 
are  called)  greater.  Should  this  fortunate  tendency  of 
literature  continue,  books  will  grow  more  valuable  from 
year  to  year,  and  the  whole  Serbonian  bog  yield  to  the 
advances  of  firm  arable  land. 

I  have  wondered,  in  the  Kepreseutatives'  Chamber 
of  our  own  Commonwealth,  to  mark  how  little  impres 
sion  seemed  to  be  produced  by  that  emblematic  fish 
suspended  over  the  heads  of  the  members.  Our  wiser 
ancestors,  no  doubt,  hung  it  there  as  being  the  animal 
which  the  Pythagoreans  reverenced  for  its  silence,  and 
which  certainly  in  that  particular  does  not  so  well  merit 
the  epithet  cold-Hooded,  by  which  naturalists  distin 
guish  it,  as  certain  bipeds,  afflicted  with  ditch-water  on 
the  brain,  who  take  occasion  to  tap  themselves  in 
Fanueil  Halls,  meeting-houses,  and  other  places  of 
public  resort. — H.  W.J 


No.  V. 
THE  DEBATE  IN  THE  SENNIT. 

SOT   TO    A    NUSET   KHYME. 

THE  incident  which  gave  rise  to  the  debate  satirized 
in  the  following  verses  was  the  unsuccessful  attempt  of 
Drayton  and  Sayres  to  give  freedom  to  seventy  men  and 
women,  fellow-beings  and  fellow-Christians.  Had  Tri 
poli.,  instead  of  Washington,  been  the  scene  of  this  un 
dertaking,  the  unhappy  leaders  in  it  would  have  been 
as  secure  of  the  theoretic  as  they  now  are  of  the  practi 
cal  part  of  martyrdom.  I  question  whether  the  Dey  of 
Tripoli  is  blessed  with  a  District  Attorney  so  benighted 
as  ours  at  the  seat  of  government.  Very  fitly  is  he 
named  Key,  who  would  allow  himself  to  be  made  the 
instrument  of  locking  the  door  of  hope  against  sufferers 
in  such  a  cause.  Not  all  the  waters  of  the  ocean  can 
cleanse  the  vile  smutch  of  the  jailer's  fingers  from  off 
that  little  Key.  Aliened  clavis,  a  brazen  Key  indeed  ! 

Mr.  Calhoun,  who  is  made  the  chief  speaker  in  this 
burlesque,  seems  to  think  that  the  light  of  the  nine 
teenth  century  is  to  be  put  out  as  soon  as  he  tinkles  his 
little  cow-bell  curfew.  Whenever  slavery  is  touched, 
he  sets  up  his  scare-crow  of  dissolving  the  Union. 
This  may  do  for  the  North,  but  I  should  conjecture 
that  something  more  than  a  pumpkin-lantern  is  re 
quired  to  scare  manifest  and  irretrievable  Destiny  out 

8? 


88  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

of  her  path.  Mr.  Calhoun  cannot  let  go  the  apron- 
string  of  the  Past.  The  Past  is  a  good  nurse,  but  we 
must  be  weaned  from  her  sooner  or  later,  even  though, 
like  Plotinns,  we  should  run  home  from  school  to  ask 
the  breast,  after  we  are  tolerably  well-grown  youths. 
It  will  not  do  for  us  to  hide  our  faces  in  her  lap,  when 
ever  the  strange  Future  holds  out  her  arms  and  asks  ns 
to  come  to  her. 

But  we  are  all  alike.  We  have  all  heard  it  said,  often 
enough,  that  little  boys  must  not  play  with  fire ;  and 
yet,  if  the  matches  be  taken  away  from  us  and  put  out 
of  reach  upon  the  shelf,  we  must  needs  get  into  our 
little  corner,  and  scowl  and  stamp  and  threaten  the 
dire  revenge  of  going  to  bed  without  our  supper.  The 
world  shall  stop  till  we  get  our  dangerous  plaything 
again.  Dame  Earth,  meanwhile,  who  has  more  than 
enough  household  matters  to  mind,  goes  bustling  hither 
and  thither  as  a  hiss  or  a  sputter  tells  her  that  this  or 
that  kettle  of  hers  is  boiling  over,  and  before  bedtime 
we  are  glad  to  eat  our  porridge  cold,  and  gulp  down 
our  dignity  along  with  it. 

Mr.  Calhoun  has  somehow  acquired  the  name  of  a 
great  statesman,  and,  if  it  be  great  statesmanship  to  put 
lance  in  rest  and  run  a  tilt  at  the  Spirit  of  the  Age 
with  the  certainty  of  being  next  moment  hurled  neck 
and  heels  into  the  dust  amid  universal  laughter,  he  de 
serves  the  title.  He  is  the  Sir  Kay  of  our  modern 
chivalry.  He  should  remember  the  old  Scandinavian 
mythus.  Thor  was  the  strongest  of  gods,  but  he  could 
not  wrestle  with  Time,  nor  so  much  as  lift  up  a  fold  of 
the  great  snake  which  knit  the  universe  together  ;  and 
when  he  smote  the  Earth,  though  with  his  terrible  mal 
let,  it  was  but  as  if  a  leaf  had  fallen.  Yet  all  the  while 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  39 

it  seemed  to  Thor  that  he  had  only  been  wrestling  with 
an  old  woman,  striving  to  lift  a  cat,  and  striking  a 
stupid  giant  on  the  head. 

And  in  old  times,  doubtless,  the  giants  were  stupid, 
and  there  was  no  better  sport  for  the  Sir  Launcelots 
and  Sir  Gawains  than  to  go  about  cutting  off  their  great 
blundering  heads  with  enchanted  swords.  But  things 
have  wonderfully  changed.  It  is  the  giants,  nowadays, 
that  have  the  science  and  the  intelligence,  while  the 
chivalrous  Don  Quixotes  of  Conservatism  still  cumb'er 
themselves  with  the  clumsy  armor  of  a  bygone,  age. 
On  whirls  the  restless  globe  through  unsounded  time, 
with  its  cities  and  its  silences,  its  births  and  funerals, 
half  light,  half  shade,  but  never  wholly  dark,  and  sure 
to  swing  round  into  the  happy  morning  at  last.  With 
an  involuntary  smile,  one  sees  Mr.  Calhoun  letting  slip 
his  pack-thread  cable  with'  a  crooked  pin  at  the  end  of 
it  to  anchor  South  Carolina  upon  the  bank  and  shoal  of 
the  Past.— H.  W.j 

TO   MR.    BUCKEN AM. 

MR.  EDITER,  As  i  wuz  kinder  prunin  round,  in  a  little 
nussry  sot  out  a  year  or  2  a  go,  the  Dbait  in  the  sennit 
cum  inter  my  mine  An  so  i  took  &  Sot  it  to  wut  I  call 
a  nussry  rime.  I  hev  made  sum  onnable  Gentlemun 
speak  that  dident  speak  in  a  Kind  uv  Poetikul  lie  sense 
the  seeson  is  dreffle  backerd  up  This  way 

ewers  as  ushul 

HOSEA  BIGLOW. 

"  HERE  we  stan'  on  the  Constitution,  by  thunder  ! 

It 's  a  fact  o'  wich  ther  's  bushils  o'  proofs  ; 
Fer  how  could  we  trample  on  't  so,  I  wonder, 

Ef  't  worn't  thet  it's  oilers  under  our  hoofs  ?" 


90  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; 

"  Human  rights  hain't  no  more 

Eight  to  come  on  this  floor, 
No  more  'n  the  man  in  the  moon/'  sez  he. 

"  The  North  hain't  no  kind  o'  bisness  with  nothin', 

An'  you  've  no  idee  how  much  bother  it  saves  ; 
We  ain't  none  riled  by  their  frettin'  an'  frothin', 
We  're  used  to  layin'  the  string  on  our  slaves," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 
Sez  Mister  Foote, 
"  I  should  like  to  shoot 
The  holl  gang,  by  the  gret  horn  spoon  !  "  sez  he. 

"  Freedom's  Keystone  is  Slavery,  thet  ther  's  no  doubt 

on, 

It 's  sutthin'  thet 's — wha'  d'  ye  call  it  ? — divine, — 
An'  the  slaves  thet  we  oilers  make  the  most  out  on 
Air  them  north  o'  Mason  an'  Dixon's  line," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 
"  Fer  all  thet,"  sez  Mangum, 
"  'T  would  be  better  to  hang  'em, 
An*  so  git  red  on  'em  soon,"  sez  he. 

"  The  mass  ough'  to  labor  an'  we  lay  on  soffies, 

Thet 's  the  reason  I  want  to  spread  Freedom's  aree  ; 
It  puts  all  the  cunninest  on  us  in  office, 
An'  reelises  our  Maker's  orig'nal  idee," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 
"  Thet's  ez  plain,"  sez  Cass, 
"  Ez  thet  some  one's  an  ass, 
It's  ez  clear  ez  the  sun  is  at  noon,"  sez  he. 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  91 

"  Now  don't  go  to  say  I  'm  the  friend  of  oppression, 

But  keep  all  your  spare  breath  fer  coolin'  your  broth, 
Fer  I  oilers  hev  strove  (at  least  thet  's  my  impression) 
To  make  cussed  free  with  the  rights  o'  the  North," 
Sez  John  0.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 
"Yes,"  sez  Davis  o'  Miss., 
"The  perfection  o'  bliss 
Is  in  skinnin'  thet  same  old  coon,"  sez  he. 

"  Slavery 's  a  thing  thet  depends  on  complexion, 

It 's  God's  law  thet  fetters  on  black  skins  don't  chafe  ; 
Ef  brains  wuz  to  settle  it  (horrid  reflection  !) 
Wich  of  our  onnable  body  'd  be  safe  ?  " 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 
Sez  Mister  Hannegan, 
Afore  he  began  agin, 
"  Thet  exception  is  quite  oppertoon,"  sez  he. 

"  Gen'nle  Cass,  Sir,  you  need  n't  be  twitchin'  your  col 
lar, 

Your  merit  's  quite  clear  by  the  dut  on  your  knees, 
At  the  North  we  don't  make  no  distinctions  o'  color  ; 
You  can  all  take  a  lick  at  our  shoes  wen  you  please," 
Sez  John  0.  Calhonn,  sez  he  ; — 
Sez  Mister  Jarnagin, 
"  They  wunt  hev  to  larn  agin, 
They  all  on  'em  know  the  old  toon,"  sez  he. 

"  The  slavery  question  ain't  no  ways  bewilderin'. 

North  an'  South  hev  one  int'rest,  it 's  plain  to  a  glance  ; 
No'thern  men,  like  us  patriarchs,  don't  sell  their  chil* 

drin, 

But  they  du  sell   themselves,   ef  they  git  a   good, 
chance," 


92  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 

Sez  Atherton  here, 

"  This  is  gittin'  severe, 
I  wish  I  could  dive  like  a  loon,"  sez  he. 

"  It'll  break  up  the  Union,  this  talk  about  freedom, 

An*  your  jfact'ry  gals  (soon  ez  we  split)  '11  make  head, 
An'  gittin'  some  Miss  chief  or  other  to  lead  'em, 
'11  go  to  work  raisin'  promiscoous  Ned," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhonn,  sez  he  ; — 

"Yes,  the  North,"  sez  Colquitt, 
"  Ef  we  Southerners  all  quit, 
Would  go  down  like  a  busied  balloon,"  sez  he. 

"Jest  look  wut  is  doin',  wut  annyky  's  brewin* 

In  the  beautiful  clime  o'  the  olive  an'  vine, 
All  the  wise  aristoxy  is  tumblin'  to  ruin, 

An'  the  sankylots  drorin'  an'  drinkin'  their  wine," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 

"  Yes,"  sez  Johnson,  "  in  France 
They  're  beginnin'  to  dance 
Beelzebub's  own  rigadoon,"  sez  he. 

"  The  South 's  safe  enough,  it  don't  feel  a  mite  skeery, 

Our  slaves  in  their  darkness  an'  dut  air  tu  blest 
Not  to  welcome  with  proud  hallylugers  the  ery 

Wen  our  eagle  kicks  yourn  from  the  naytional  nest," 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 
"  0,"  sez  Westcott  o'  Florida, 
"Wut  treason  is  horrider 
Then  our  priv'leges  tryin'  to  proon  ?  "  sez  he. 

"  It '&  'coz  they  're  so  happy,  thet,  wen  crazy  sarpints 
Stick  their  nose  in  our  bizness,  we  git  so  darned  riled ; 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  93 

We  think  its  our  dooty  to  give  pooty  sharp  hints, 
Thet  the  last  crumb  of  Edin  on  airth  shan't  be  spiled/' 
Sez  John  C.  Calhoun,  sez  he  ; — 
"  Ah/'  sez  Dixon  H.  Lewis, 
"  It  perfectly  true  is 
Thet  slavery's  airth  's  grettest  boon/'  sez  he. 


[It  was  said  of  old  time,  that  riches  have  wings  ;  and 
though  this  be  not  applicable  in  a  literal  strictness  to 
the  wealth  of  our  patriarchal  brethren  of  the  South, 
yet  it  is  clear  that  their  possessions  have  legs,  and  an 
unaccountable  propensity  for  using  them  in  a  northerly 
direction.  I  marvel  that  the  grand  jury  of  Washington 
did  not  find  a  true  bill  against  the  North  Star  for  aid 
ing  and  abetting  Drayton  and  Sayres.  It  would  have 
been  quite  of  a  piece  with  the  intelligence  displayed  by 
the  South  on  other  questions  connected  with  slavery. 
I  think  that  no  ship  of  state  was  ever  freighted  with  a 
more  veritable  Jonah  than  this  same  domestic  institu 
tion  of  ours.  Mephistopheles  himself  could  not  feign 
so  bitterly,  so  satirically  sad  a  sight  as  this  of  three 
millions  of  human  beings  crushed  beyond  help  or  hope 
by  this  one  mighty  argument, — Our  fathers  knew  no 
tetter  !  Nevertheless,  it  is  the  unavoidable  destiny  of 
Jonahs  to  be  cast  overboard  sooner  or  later.  Or  shall 
we  try  the  experiment  of  hiding  our  Jonah  in  a  safe 
place,  that  none  may  lay  hands  on  him  to  make  jetsam 
of  him  ?  Let  us,  then,  with  equal  forethought  and 
wisdom,  lash  ourselves  to  the  anchor,  and  await,  in 
pious  confidence,  the  certain  result.  Perhaps  our  sus 
picious  passenger  is  no  Jonah  after  all,  being  black. 
For  it  is  well  known  that  a  superintending  Providence 


94  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

made  a  kind  of  sandwich  of  Ham  and  his  descendants, 
to  be  devoured  by  the  Caucasian  race. 

In  God's  name,  let  all,  who  hear  nearer  and  nearer 
the  hungry  moan  of  the  storm  and  the  growl  of  the 
breakers,  speak  out !  But,  alas  !  we  have  no  right  to 
interfere.  If  a  man  pluck  an  apple  of  mine,  he  shall 
be  in  danger  of  the  justice  ;  but  if  he  steal  my  brother 
I  must  be  silent.  Who  says  this  ?  Our  Constitution, 
consecrated  by  the  callous  sn  etude  of  sixty  years,  and 
grasped  in  triumphant  argument  in  the  left  hand  of 
him  whose  right  hand  clutches  the  clotted  slave-whip. 
Justise,  ^nerable  with  the  undethronable  majesty  of 
countlsss  aeons,  says, — SPEAK  !  The  Past,  wise  with 
the  sorrows  and  desolations  of  ages,  from  amid  her 
shattered  fanes  and  wolf-housing  palaces,  echoes, — 
SPEAK  !  Nature,  through  her  thousand  trumpets  of 
freedom,  her  stars,  her  sunrises,  her  seas,  her  winds, 
her  cataracts,  her  mountains  blue  with  cloudy  pines, 
blows  jubilant  encouragement,  and  cries, — SPEAK  ! 
From  the  souFs  trembling  abysses  the  still,  small  voice 
not  vaguely  murmurs, — SPEAK  !  But  alas  !  the  Con 
stitution  and  the  Honorable  Mr.  Bagowind,  M.  C., 
say, — BE  DUMB  ! 

It  occurs  to  me  to  suggest,  as  a  topic  of  inquiry  in 
this  connection,  whether,  on  that  momentous  occasion 
when  the  goats  and  the  sheep  shall  be  parted,  the  Con 
stitution  and  the  Honorable  Mr.  Bagowind,  M.  C.,  will 
be  expected  to  take  their  places  on  the  left  as  our 
hircine  vicars. 

Quid  sum  miser  tune  dicturus  f 
Quempatronum  rogaturus  f 

There  is  a  point  where  toleration  sinks  into  sheer  base- 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  95 

ness  and  poltroonery.  The  toleration  of  the  worst 
leads  us  to  look  on  what  is  barely  better  as  good  enough 
and  to  worship  what  is  only  moderately  good.  Woe  to 
that  man,  or  that  nation,  to  whom  mediocrity  has  be 
come  an  ideal ! 

Has  our  experiment  of  self-government  succeeded,  if 
it  barely  manage  to  rub  and  go  9  Here,  now,  is  a  piece 
of  barbarism  which  Christ  and  the  nineteenth  century 
say  shall  cease,  and  which  Messrs.  Smith,  Brown,  and 
others  say  shall  not  cease.  I  would  by  no  means  deny 
the  eminent  respectability  of  these  gentlemen,  but  I 
confess,  that,  in  such  a  wrestling-match,  I  cannot  help 
having  my  fears  for  them. 

Discitejustitiam,  moniti,  et  non  temnere  divos. 

H.  W.] 


No.  VI. 
THE  PIOUS  EDITOR'S   CEEED. 

[AT  the  special  instance  of  Mr.  Biglow,  I  preface  the 
following  satire  with  an  extract  from  a  sermon  preached 
during  the  past  summer,  from  Ezekiel  xxxiv.  2  : — 
"  Son  of  man,  prophesy  against  the  shepherds  of 
Israel."  Since  the  Sabbath  on  which  this  discourse  was 
delivered,  the  editor  of  the  "  Jaalam  Independent 
Blunderbuss"  has  unaccountably  absented  himself  from 
our  house  of  worship. 

"  I  know  of  no  so  responsible  position  as  that  of  the 
public  journalist.  The  editor  of  our  day  bears  the 
same  relation  to  his  time  that  the  clerk  bore  to  the  age 
before  the  invention  of  printing.  Indeed,  the  position 
which  he  holds  is  that  which  the  clergyman  should  hold 
even  now.  But  the  clergyman  chooses  to  walk  off  to 
the  extreme  edge  of  the  world,  and  to  throw  such  seed 
as  he  has  clear  over  into  that  darkness  which  he  calls 
the  Next  Life.  As  if  next  did  not  mean  nearest,  and 
as  if  any  life  were  nearer  than  that  immediately  present 
one  which  boils  and  eddies  all  around  him  at  the  cau 
cus,  the  ratification  meeting,  and  the  polls  !  Who 
taught  him  to  exhort  men  to  prepare  for  eternity,  as 
for  some  future  era  of  which  the  present  forms  no  inte 
gral  part  ?  The  furrow  which  Time  is  even  now  turn- 
96 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  9? 

ing  runs  through  the  Everlasting,  and  in  that  must  he 
plant,  or  nowhere.  Yet  he  would  fain  believe  and 
teach  that  we  are  going  to  have  more  of  eternity  than 
we  have  now.  This  going  of  his  is  like  that  of  the  auc 
tioneer,  on  which  gone  follows  before  we  have  made  up 
our  minds  to  bid, — in  which  manner,  not  three  months 
back,  I  lost  an  excellent  copy  of  Chappelow  on  Job. 
So  it  has  come  to  pass  that  the  preacher,  instead  of 
being  a  living  force,  has  faded  into  an  emblematic 
figure  at  christenings,  weddings,  and  funerals.  Or,  if 
he  exercise  any  other  function,  it  is  as  keeper  and  feeder 
of  certain  theologic  dogmas,  which,  when  occasion 
offers,  he  unkennels  with  a  stdboy  /  "  to  bark  and  bite 
as  't  is  their  nature  to/'  whence  that  reproach  of  odium 
theologicum  has  arisen. 

"Meanwhile,  see  what  a  pulpit  the  editor  mounts 
daily,  sometimes  with  a  congregation  of  fifty  thousand 
within  reach  of  his  voice,  and  never  so  much  as  a  nod- 
der,  even,  among  them  !  And  from  what  a  Bible  can 
he  choose  his  text, — a  Bible  which  needs  no  translation, 
and  which  no  priestcraft  can  shut  and  clasp  from  the 
laity, — the  open  volume  of  the  world,  upon  which,  with 
a  pen  of  sunshine  or  destroying  fire,  the  inspired  Pres 
ent  is  even  now  writing  the  annals  of  God  !  Methinks 
the  editor  who  should  .understand  his  calling,  and  be 
equal  thereto,  would  truly  deserve  that  title  of  itotfi^v 
Aawv,  which  Homer  bestows  upon  princes.  He  would 
be  the  Moses  of  our  nineteenth  century,  and  whereas 
the  old  Sinai,  silent  now,  is  but  a  common  mountain 
stared  at  by  the  elegant  tourist  and  crawled  over  by  the 
hammering  geologist,  he  must  find  his  tables  of  the 
new  law  here  among  factories  and  cities  in  this  Wilder 
ness  of  Sin  (Numbers  xxxiii.  12),  called  Progress  of 
7 


98  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Civilization,  and  be  the  captain  of  our  Exodus  into  the 
Canaan  of  a  truer  social  order. 

"  Nevertheless,  our  editor  will  not  come  so  far  within 
even  the  shadow  of  Sinai  as  Mahomet  did,  but  chooses 
rather  to  construe  Moses  by  Joe  Smith.  He  takes  up 
the  crook,  not  that  the  sheep  may  be  fed,  but  that  he 
may  never  want  a  warm  woollen  suit  and  a  joint  of  mut 
ton. 

Immemor,  O,  fidei  pecorumque  oblite  tuorum  ! 

For  which  reason  I  would  derive  the  name  editor  not 
so  much  from  edo,  to  publish,  as  from  edo,  to  eat,  that 
being  the  peculiar  profession  to  which  he  esteems  him 
self  called.  He  blows  up  the  flames  of  political  discord 
for  no  other  occasion  than  that  he  may  thereby  handily 
boil  his  own  pot.  I  believe  there  are  two  thousand  of 
these  mutton-loving  shepherds  in  the  United  States,  and 
of  these,  how  many  have  even  the  dimmest  perception 
of  their  immense  power,  and  the  duties  consequent  there 
on  ?  Here  and  there,  haply,  one.  Nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  labor  to  impress  upon  the  people  the  great 
principles  of  Tweedledum,  and  other  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  preach  with  equal  earnestness  the  gospel 
according  to  Tweedledee." — H.  "W.J 

I  DU  believe  in  Freedom's  cause, 

Ez  fur  away  ez  Paris  is  ; 
1  love  to  see  her  stick  her  claws 

In  them  infarnal  Pharisees  ; 
It  '&  wal  enough  agin  a  king 

To  dror  resolves  an'  triggers, — 
But  libbaty  's  a  kind  o'  thing 

Thet  don't  agree  with  niggers. 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  du  believe  the  people  want 

A  tax  on  teas  an'  coffees, 
Thet  nothin'  ain't  extravygunt, — 

Purvidin'  I  'm  in  office  ; 
Fer  I  hev  loved  my  country  sence 

My  eye-teeth  filled  their  sockets, 
An'  Uncle  Sam  I  reverence, 

Partic'larly  his  pockets. 

I  du  believe  in  any  plan 

0'  levyin'  the  taxes, 
Ez  long  ez,  like  a  lumberman, 

I  git  jest  wut  I  axes  : 
I  go  free-trade  thru  thick  an*  thin, 

Because  it  kind  o'  rouses 
The  folks  to  vote, — an'  keeps  us  in 

Our  quiet  customhouses. 

I  du  believe  it 's  wise  an"  good 

To  sen'  out  furrin  missions, 
Thet  is,  on  sartin  understood 

An'  orthydox  conditions  ; — 
I  mean  nine  thousan'  dolls,  per  ann., 

Nine  thousan''  more  fer  outfit, 
An'  me  to  recommend  a  man 

The  place  'ould  jest  about  fit. 

I  du  believe  in  special  ways 

0'  prayin'  an'  convartin' ; 
The  bread  comes  back  in  many  days, 

An'  buttered,  tu,  fer  sartin  ; — 


100  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  mean  in  preyin'  till  one  busts 
On  wut  the  party  chooses, 

An'  in  convartin'  public  trusts 
To  every  privit  uses. 


I  du  believe  hard  coin  the  stuff 

Fer  'lectioneers  to  spout  on  ; 
The  people's  oilers  soft  enough 

To  make  hard  money  out  on  ; 
Dear  Uncle  Sam  pervides  f  er  his, 

An'  gives  a  good-sized  junk  to  all,— 
I  don't  care  fiow  hard  money  is, 

Ez  long  ez  mine's  paid  punctooal. 

I  du  believe  with  all  my  soul 

In  the  gret  Press's  freedom, 
To  pint  the  people  to  the  goal 

An'  in  the  traces  lead  'em  ; 
Palsied  the  arm  thet  forges  yokes 

At  my  fat  contracts  squintin', 
An'  withered  be  the  nose  thet  pokes 

Inter  the  gov'ment  printin'  ! 

I  du  believe  thet  I  should  give 

Wut's  his'n  unto  Caesar, 
Fer  it 's  by  him  I  move  an'  live, 

Frum  him  my  bread  an'  cheese  air ; 
I  du  believe  thet  all  o'  me 

Doth  bear  his  souperscription, — 
Will,  conscience,  honor,  honesty, 

An'  things  o'  thet  description. 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  du  believe  in  prayer  an'  praise 

To  him  thet  hez  the  grantin' 
O'  jobs, — in  every  thin'  thet  pays, 

But  most  of  all  in  CANTIN'  ; 
This  doth  my  cup  with  marcies  fill, 

This  lays  all  thought  o'  sin  to  rest, 
I  don't  believe  in  princerple, 

But,  0,  I  du  in  interest. 


I  du  believe  in  bein*  this 

Or  thet,  ez  it  may  happen 
One  way  or  t'other  headiest  is 

To  ketch  the  people  nappin' ; 
It  ain't  by  princerples  nor  men 

My  preudunt  course  is  steadied, — 
I  scent  wich  pays  the  best,  an'  then 

Go  into  it  baldheaded. 


I  du  believe  thet  holdin'  slaves 

Comes  nat'ral  tu  a  Presidunt, 
Let  'lone  the  rowdedow  it  saves 

To  hev  a  wal-broke  precedunt ; 
Fer  any  office,  small  or  gret, 

I  could  n't  ax  with  no  face, 
Without  I'd  ben,  thru  dry  an'  wet, 

Th'  unrizzest  kind  o'  doughface. 

I  du  believe  wutever  trash 

'11  keep  the  people  in  blindness, — 
Thet  we  the  Mexicuns  can  thrash 

Eight  inter  brotherly  kindness, 


102  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Thet  bombshells,  grape,  an'  powder  V  ball 
Air  good- will's  strongest  magnets, 

Thet  peace,  to  make  it  stick  at  all, 
Must  be  druv  in  with  bagnets. 

In  short,  I  firmly  du  believe 

In  Humbug  generally, 
Fer  it 's  a  thing  thet  I  perceive 

To  he  v  a  solid  vally ; 
This  heth  my  faithful  shepherd  ben, 

In  pasturs  sweet  heth  led  me, 
An'  this  '11  keep  the  people  green 

To  feed  ez  they  hev  fed  me. 

[I  subjoin  here  another  passage  from  my  before- 
mentioned  discourse. 

"  Wonderful,  to  him  that  has  eyes  to  see  it  rightly, 
is  the  newspaper.  To  me,  for  example,  sitting  on  the 
critical  front  bench  of  the  pit,  in  my  study  here  in 
Jaalam,  the  advent  of  my  weekly  journal  is  as  that  of  a 
strolling  theatre,  or  rather  of  a  puppet-show,  on  whose 
stage,  narrow  as  it  is,  the  tragedy,  comedy,  and  farce 
of  life  are  played  in  little.  Behold  the  whole  huge 
earth  sent  to  me  hebdomadally  in  a  brown  paper  wrapper  ! 

"  Hither,  to  my  obscure  corner,  by  wind  or  steam,  on 
horseback  or  dromedary-back,  in  the  pouch  of  the  In 
dian  runner,  or  clicking  over  the  magnetic  wires,  troop 
all  the  famous  performers  from  the  four  quarters  of  the 
globe.  Looked  at  from  a  point  of  criticism,  tiny  pup 
pets  they  seem  all,  as  the  editor  sets  up  his  booth  upon 
my  desk  and  officiates  as  showman.  Now  I  can  truly 
see  how  little  and  transitory  is  life.  The  earth  appears 
almost  as  a  drop  of  vinegar,  on  which  the  solar  micro- 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  103 

scope  of  the  imagination  must  be  brought  to  bear  in 
order  to  make  out  anything  distinctly.  That  animal 
cule  there,  in  the  pea-jacket,  is  Louis  Philippe,  just 
landed  on  the  coast  of  England.  That  other,  in  the 
gray  surtout  and  cocked  hat,  is  Napoleon  Bonaparte 
Smith,  assuring  France  that  she  need  apprehend  no 
interference  from  him  in  the  present  alarming  juncture. 
At  that  spot,  where  you  seem  to  see  a  speck  of  some 
thing  in  motion,  is  an  immense  mass  meeting.  Look 
sharper,  and  you  will  see  a  mite  brandishing  his  man 
dibles  in  an  excited  manner.  That  is  the  great  Mr. 
Soandso,  defining  his  position  amid  tumultuous  and 
irrepressible  cheers.  That  infinitesimal  creature,  upon 
whom  some  score  of  others,  as  minute  as  he,  are  gazing 
in  open-mouthed  admiration,  is  a  famous  philosop  er, 
expounding  to  a  select  audience  their  capacity  for  the 
Infinite.  That  scarce  discernible  puffi  t  of  smoke  and 
dust  is  a  revolution.  That  speck  there  is  a  reformer, 
just  arranging  the  lever  with  which  he  is  to  move  the 
world.  And  lo,  there  creeps  forward  the  shadow  of  a 
skeleton  that  blows  one  breath  between  its  grinning 
teeth,  and  all  our  distinguished  actors  are  whisked  off 
the  slippery  stage  into  the  dark  Beyond. 

"Yes,  the  little  show  box  has  its  solemner  sugges 
tions.  Now  and  then  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  grim  old 
man,  who  lays  down  a  scythe  and  hour-glass  in  the  cor 
ner  while  he  shifts  the  scenes.  There,  too',  in  the  dim 
background,  a  weird  shape  is  ever  delving.  Sometimes 
he  leans  upon  his  mattock,  and  gazes,  as  a  coach  whirls 
by,  bearing  the  newly  married  on  their  wedding  jaunt, 
or  glances  carelessly  at  a  babe  brought  home  from  chris 
tening.  Suddenly  (for  the  scene  grows  larger  and  larger 
as  we  look)  a  bony  hand  snatches  back  a  performer  in  the 


104  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

midst  of  his  part,  and  him,  whom  yesterday  two  infini 
ties  (past  and  future)  would  not  suffice,  a  handful  of 
dust  is  enough  to  cover  and  silence  forever.  Nay,  we 
see  the  same  fleshless  fingers  opening  to  clutch  the 
showman  himself,  and  guess,  not  without  a  shudder, 
that  they  are  lying  in  wait  for  spectators  also. 

"  Think  of  it  :  for  three  dollars  a  year  I  buy  a  season 
ticket  to  this  great  Globe  Theatre,  for  which  God  would 
write  the  dramas  (only  that  we  like  farces,  spectacles, 
and  the  tragedies  of  Apollyon  better),  whose  scene- 
shifter  is  Time,  and  whose  curtain  is  rung  down  by 
Death. 

"  Such  thoughts  will  occur  to  me  sometimes  as  I  am 
tearing  off  the  wrapper  of  my  newspaper.  Then  sud- 
d  nly  that  otherwise  too  often  vacant  sheet  becomes 
invested  for  me  with  a  strange  kind  of  awe.  Look  ! 
deaths  and  marriages,  notices  of  inventions,  discoveries 
and  books,  lists  of  promotions,  of  killed,  wounded,  and 
missing,  news  of  fires,  accidents,  of  sudden  wealth  and 
as  sudden  poverty  ; — I  hold  in  my  hand  the  ends  of 
myriad  invisible  electric  conductors,  along  which  trem 
ble  the  joys,  sorrows,  wrongs,  triumphs,  hopes,  and 
despairs  of  as  many  men  and  women  everywhere.  So 
that  upon  that  mood  of  mind  which  seems  to  isolate 
me  from  mankind  as  a  spectator  of  their  puppet-pranks, 
another  supervenes,  in  which  I  feel  that  I,  too,  unknown 
and  unheard  of,  am  yet  of  some  import  to  my  fellows. 
For,  through  my  newspaper  here,  do  not  families  take 
pains  to  send  me,  an  entire  stranger,  news  of  a  death 
among  them  ?  Are  not  here  two  who  would  have  me 
know  of  their  marriage  ?  And,  strangest  of  all,  is  not 
this  singular  person  anxious  to  have  me  informed  that 
he  has  received  a  fresh  supply  of  Dimitry  Brnisgins  ? 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  105 

Bat  to  none  of  us  does  the  Present  (eren  if  for  a  mo 
ment  discerned  as  such)  continue  miraculous.  We 
glance  carelessly  at  the  sunrise,  and  get  used  to  Orion 
and  the  Pleiades.  The  wonder  wears  off,  and  to-morrow 
this  sheet,  in  which  a  vision  was  let  down  to  me  from 
Heaven,  shall  be  the  wrappage  to  a  bar  of  soap  or  the 
platter  for  a  beggar's  broken  victuals." — H.  W.] 


No.  VII. 
A  LETTEK 

FEOM  A  CANDIDATE  FOE  THE  PEESIDENCY  IN  ANSWEB 
TO  SUTTIN  QUESTIONS  PECPOSED  BY  ME.  HOSEA  BIG- 
LOW,  INCLOSED  IN  A  NOTE  FEOM  ME.  BIGLOW  TO  S.  H. 
GAY,  ESQ.,  EDITOE  OF  THE  NATIONAL  ANTI-SLAVEEY 
STANDAED. 

[CUEIOSITY  may  be  said  to  be  the  quality  which  pre 
eminently  distinguishes  and  segregates  man  from  the 
lower  animals.  As  we  trace  the  scale  of  animated  nature 
downward,  we  find  this  faculty  of  the  mind  (as  it  may 
truly  be  called)  diminished  in  the  savage,  and  quite 
extinct  in  the  brute.  The  first  object  which  civilized 
man  proposes  to  himself  I  take  to  be  the  finding  out 
whatsoever  he  can  concerning  his  neighbors.  NiMl 
humanum  a  me  alienum  puto  ;  I  am  curious  about  even 
John  Smith.  The  desire  next  in  strength  to  this  (an 
opposite  pole,  indeed,  of  the  same  magnet)  is  that  of 
communicating  intelligence. 

Men  in  general  'may  be  divided  into  the  inquisitive 
and  the  communicative.  To  the  first  class  belong  Peep 
ing  Toms,  eavesdroppers,  navel-contemplating  Brah 
mins,  metaphysicians,  travelers,  Empedocleses,  spies, 
the  various  societies  for  promoting  Khinothism,  Colum- 
buses,  Yankees,  discoverers,  and  men  of  science,  who 
present  themselves  to  the  mind  as  so  many  marks  of 

106 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  107 

interrogation  wandering  up  and  down  the  world,  or  sit 
ting  in  studies  and  laboratories.  The  second  class  I 
should  again  subdivide  into  four.  In  the  first  subdi 
vision  I  would  rank  those  who  have  an  itch  to  tell  us 
about  themselves, — as  keepers  of  diaries,  insignificant 
persons  generally,  Montaignes,  Horace  Walpoles,  auto- 
biographers,  poets.  The  second  includes  those  who  are 
anxious  to  impart  information  concerning  other  people, 
— as  historians,  barbers,  and  such.  To  the  third  belong 
those  who  labor  to  give  us  intelligence  about  nothing  at 
all, — as  novelists,  political  orators,  the  large  majority  of 
authors,  preachers,  lecturers,  and  the  like.  In  the 
fourth  come  those  who  are  communicative  from  motives 
of  public  benevolence, — as  finders  of  mares'-nests  and 
bringers  of  ill  news.  Each  of  us  two-legged  fowls  with 
out  feathers  embraces  all  these  subdivisions  in  himself 
to  a  greater  or  less  degree,  for  none  of  us  so  much  as 
lays  an  egg,  or  incubates  a  chalk  one,  but  straightway 
the  whole  barnyard  shall  know  it  by  our  cackle  or  our 
cluck.  Omnibus  lioc  vitium  est.  There  are  different 
grades  in  all  these  classes.  One  will  turn  his  telescope 
toward  a  backyard,  another  toward  Uranus ;  one  will 
tell  you  that  he  dined  with  Smith,  another  that  he 
supped  wifTi  PI  ,to.  In  one  particular,  all  men  may  be 
considered  as  belonging  to  the  first  grand  division,  inas 
much  as  t^ey  all  seem  equally  desirous  of  discovering 
the  mote  in  their  neighbor's  eye. 

To  one  or  another  of  these  species  every  human  be 
ing  may  safely  be  referred.  I  think  it  beyond  a  per- 
adventure  that  Jonah  prosecuted  some  inquiries  into  the 
digestive  apparatus  of  whales,  and  that  Noah  sealed  up 
a  letter  in  an  empty  bottle,  that  news  in  regard  to  him 
might  not  be  wanting  in  case  of  the  worst.  They  had 


108  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

else  been  super  or  subter  human.  I  conceive,  also,  thats 
as  there  are  certain  persons  who  continually  peep  and 
pry  at  the  keyhole  of  that  mysterious  door  through 
which,  sooner  or  later,  we  all  make  our  exits,  so  there 
are  doubtless  ghosts  fidgeting  and  fretting  on  the  other 
side  of  it,  because  they  have  no  means  of  conveying 
back  to  the  world  the  scraps  of  news  they  have  picked 
up.  For  there  is  an  answer  ready  somewhere  to  every 
question,  the  great  law  of  give  and  take  runs  through 
all  nature,  and  if  we  see  a  hook,  we  may  be  sure  that  an 
eye  is  waiting  for  it.  I  read  in  every  face  I  meet  a 
standing  advertisement  of  information  wanted  in  regard 
to  A.  B.,  or  that  the  friends  of  C.  D.  can  hear  of  him 
by  application  to  such  a  one. 

It  was  to  gratify  the  two  great  passions  of  asking  and 
answering  that  epistolary  correspondence  was  first  in 
vented.  Letters  (for  by  this  usurped  title  epistles  are 
now  commonly  known)  are  of  several  kinds.  First, 
there  are  those  which  are  not  letters  at  all, — as  letters 
patent,  letters  dismissory,  letters  inclosing  bills,  letters 
of  administration,  Pliny's  letters,  letters  of  diplomacy, 
of  Cato,  of  Mentor,  of  Lords  Lyttelton,  Chesterfield, 
and  Orrery,  of  Jacob  Behmen,  Seneca  (whom  St.  Jerome 
includes  in  his  list  of  sacred  writers),  letters  from  abroad, 
from  sons  in  college  to  their  fathers,  letters  of  marque, 
and  letters  generally,  which  are  in  no  wise  letters  of 
mark.  Second,  are  real  letters,  such  as  those  of  Gray, 
Cowper,  "Walpole,  Howel,  Lamb,  the  first  letters  from 
children  (printed  in  staggering  capitals)  Letters  from 
New  York,  letters  of  credit,  and  others,  interesting  for 
the  sake  of  the  writer  or  the  thing  written.  I  have 
read  also  letters  from  Europe  by  a  gentleman  named 
Pinto,  containing  some  curious  gossip,  and  which  I  hope 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  109 

to  see  collected  for  the  benefit  of  the  curious.  There 
are,  besides,  letters  addressed  to  posterity, — as  epitaphs, 
for  example,  written  for  their  own  monuments,  by  mon- 
archs,  whereby  we  have  lately  become  possessed  of  the 
names  of  several  great  conquerors  and  kings  of  kings, 
hitherto  unheard  of  and  still  unpronounceable,  but 
valuable  to  the  student  of  the  entirely  dark  ages.  The 
letter  which  St.  Peter  sent  to  King  Pepin  in  the  year 
of  grace  755  I  would  place  in  a  class  by  itself,  as  also 
the  letters  of  candidates,  concerning  which  I  shall  dilate 
more  fully  in  a  note  at  the  end  of  the  following  poem. 
At  present,  sat  prata  friberunt.  Only,  concerning  the 
shape  of  letters,  they  are  all  either  square  or  oblong,  to 
which  general  figures,  circular  letters  and  round-robins 
also  conform  themselves. — H.  W.] 

DEER  SIR  its  gut  to  be  the  fashun  now  to  rite  letters 
to  the  candid  8s  and  i  wus  chose  at  a  publick  Meetin  in 
Jaalam  to  du  wut  wus  nessary  fur  that  town,  i  writ  to 
271  ginerals  and  gut  ansers  to  209.  tha  air  called  can 
did  8s  but  I  don't  see  nothin  candid  about  em.  this 
here  i  vrich  I  send  wus  thought  satty's  factory.  I  dunno 
as  it's  ushle  to  print  Poscrips,  but  as  all  the  ansers  I  got 
lied  the  saim,  I  sposed  it  wus  best,  times  has  gretly 
changed.  Formaly  to  knock  a  man  into  a  cocked  hat 
wus  to  use  him  up,  but  now  it  ony  gives  him  a  chance 
fur  the  cheef  madgustracy. — H.  B. 


DEAR  SIR, — You  wish  to  know  my  notions 
On  sartin  pints  thet  rile  the  land  ; 

There  's  nothin'  thet  my  natur  so  shuns 
Ez  bein'  mum  or  underhand  ; 


110  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  'm  a  straight-spoken  kind  o'  creetur 
Thet  blurts  right  out  wut  's  in  his  head, 

An*  ef  I  've  one  pecooler  feetur, 
It  is  a  nose  thet  wunt  be  led. 

So,  to  begin  at  the  beginning 

An*  come  direcly  to  the  pint, 
I  think  the  country's  underpinnin' 

Is  some  consid'ble  out  o'  jint ; 
I  ain't  agoin'  to  try  your  patience 

By  tellin'  who  done  this  or  thet, 
I  don't  make  no  insinooations, 

I  jest  let  on  I  smell  a  rat. 

Thet  is,  I  mean,  it  seems  to  me  so, 

But,  ef  the  public  think  I  'm  wrong, 
I  wunt  deny  but  wut  I  be  so, — 

An',  fact,  it  don't  smell  very  strong  ; 
My  mind  's  tu  fair  to  lose  its  balance 

An'  say  wich  party  hez  most  sense  ; 
There  may  be  folks  o'  greater  talence 

Thet  can't  set  stiddier  on  the  fence. 

I  'm  an  eclectic  ;  ez  to  choosin' 

'Twixt  this  an'  thet,  I  'm  plaguy  lawth  ; 
I  leave  a  side  thet  looks  like  losin', 

But  (wile  there  's  doubt)  I  stick  to  both  ; 
I  stan'  upon  the  Constitution, 

Ez  preudunt  statesmun  say,  who  've  planned 
A  way  to  git  the  most  profusion 

0*  chances  ez  to  ware  they  '11  stand. 

Ez  fer  the  war,  I  go  agin  it, — 
I  mean  to  say  I  kind  o*  du, — 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Thet  is,  I  mean  thet,  bein'  in  it, 
The  best  way  wuz  to  fight  it  thru  ; 

Not  but  wut  abstract  war  is  horrid, 
I  sign  to  thet  with  all  my  heart, — 

But  civlyzation  doos  git  forrid 
Sometimes  upon  a  powder-cart. 

About  thet  darned  Proviso  matter 

I  never  hed  a  grain  o'  doubt, 
Nor  I  ain't  one  my  sense  to  scatter 

So  's  no  one  could  n't  pick  it  out ; 
My  love  fer  North  an'  South  is  equil, 

So  I  '11  jest  answer  plump  an'  frank, 
No  matter  wut  may  be  the  sequil, — 

Yes,  Sir,  I  am  agin  a  Bank. 

Ez  to  the  answeriu'  o'  questions, 

I  'm  an  oif  ox  at  bein'  druv, 
Though  I  ain't  one  thet  ary  test  shuns 

'11  give  our  folks  a  helpin'  shove  ; 
Kind  o'  promiscoous  I  go  it 

Fer  the  holl  country,  an'  the  ground 
I  take,  ez  nigh  ez  I  can  show  it, 

Is  pooty  geii'ally  all  round. 

I  don't  appruve  o'  givin'  pledges  ; 

You  'd  ough'  to  leave  a  feller  free, 
An'  not  go  knockin'  out  the  wedges 

To  ketch  his  fingers  in  the  tree  ; 
Pledges  air  awfle  breachy  cattle 

Thet  preudent  farmers  don't  turn  out, 
Ez  long  'z  the  people  git  their  rattle, 

Wut  is  there  fer  'm  to  grout  about  ? 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Ez  to  the  slaves,  there's  no  confusion 

In  my  idees  consarnin'  them, — 
/  think  they  air  an  Institution, 

A  sort  of — yes — yes,  jest  so, — ahem  : 
Do  /  own  any  ?     Of  my  merit 

On  thet  pint  you  yourself  may  jedge  : 
All  is,  I  never  drink  no  sperit, 

Nor  I  hain't  never  signed  no  pledge. 

Ez  to  my  principles,  I  glory 

In  hevin'  nothin'  o'  the  sort. 
I  ain't  a  Wig,  I  ain't  a  Tory, 

I'm  jest  a  candidate,  in  short , 
Thet 's  fair  an'  square  an'  parpendicler, 

But,  ef  the  Public  cares  a  fig 
To  hev  me  an'thin'  in  particler, 

Wy,  I  'm  a  kind  o'  peri-wig. 

P.  S. 

Ez  we  're  a  sort  o'  privateerin', 

0'  course,  you  know,  it 's  sheer  an'  sheer, 
An'  there  is  sutthin'  wuth  your  hearin' 

I  '11  mention  in  your  privit  ear ; 
Ef  you  git  me  inside  the  White  House, 

Your  head  with  ile  I  '11  kin'  o'  'nint 
By  gittin'  you  inside  the  Lighthouse 

Down  to  the  eend  o'  Jaalam  Pint. 

An*  ez  the  North  hez  took  to  brustlin* 
At  bein'  scrouged  frum  off  the  roost, 

1 11  tell  ye  wut  '11  save  all  tusslin' 

An'  give  our  side  a  harnsome  boost, — 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  113 

Tell  'em  thet  on  the  Slavery  question 

I  'm  EIGHT,  although  to  speak  I  'm  lawth  ; 

This  gives  you  a  safe  pint  to  rest  on, 
An*  leaves  me  frontin'  South  by  North. 

[And  now  of  epistles  candidatial,  which  are  of  two 
kinds, — namely,  letters  of  acceptance,  and  letters  defin 
itive  of  position.  Our  republic,  on  the  eve  of  an  elec 
tion,  may  safely  enough  be  called  a  republic  of  letters. 
Epistolary  -  composition  becomes  then  an  epidemic, 
which  seizes  .one  candidate  after  another,  not  seldom 
cutting  short  the  thread  of  political  life.  It  has  come 
to  such  a  pass  that  a  party  dreads  less  the  attacks 
of  its  opponents  than  a  letter  from  its  candidate. 
Litera  scripta  manet,  and  it  will  go  hard  if  something 
bad  cannot  be  made  of  it.  General  Harrison,  it  is  well 
understood,  was  surrounded,  during  his  candidacy, 
with  the  cordon  sanitaire  of  a  vigilance  committee. 
No  prisoner  in  Spielberg  was  ever  more  cautiously  de 
prived  of  writing  materials.  The  soot  was  scraped 
carefully  from  the  chimney-places  ;  outposts  of  expert 
rifle-shooters  rendered  it  sure  death  for  any  goose  (who 
came  clad  in  feathers)  to  approach  within  a  certain 
limited  distance  of  North  Bend  ;  and  all  domestic  fowls 
about  the  premises  were  reduced  to  the  condition  of 
Plato's  original  man.  By  these  precautions  the  Gen 
eral  was  saved.  Parva  componere  magnis,  1  remember, 
that,  when  party-spirit  once  ran  high  among  my  people, 
upon  occasion  of  the  choice  of  a  new  deacon,  I,  having 
my  preferences,  yet  not  caring  too  openly  to  express 
them,  made  use  of  an  innocent  fraud  to  bring  about 
that  result  which  I  deemed  most  desirable.  My  strata 
gem  was  no  other  than  the  throwing  a  copy  of  the  Cora- 
8 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

plete  Letter- Writer  in  the  way  of  the  candidate  whom 
I  wished  to  d  feat.  He  caught  the  infection,  and  ad 
dressed  a  short  note  to  his  constituents,  in  which  the 
opposite  party  detected  so  many  and  so  grave  impro 
prieties,  (he  had  modelled  it  upon  the  letter  of  a  young 
lady  accepting  a  proposal  of  marriage,)  that  he  not  only 
lost  his  election,  but,  falling  under  a  suspicion  of  Sabel- 
lianism  and  I  know  not  what,  (the  widow  Endive  as 
sured  me  that  he  was  a  Paralipomenon,  to  her  certain 
knowledge,)  was  forced  to  leave  the  town.  Thus  it  is 
that  the  letter  killeth. 

The  object  which  candidates  propose  to  themselves  in 
writing  is  to  convey  no  meaning  at  all.  And  here  is  a 
quite  unsuspected  pitfall  into  which  they  successively 
plunge  headlong.  For  it  is  precisely  in  such  cryptog 
raphies  that  mankind  are  prone  to  seek  for  and  find  a 
wonderful  amount  and  variety  of  significance.  Omne 
ignotum  pro  mirifico.  How  do  we  admire  at  the  antique 
world  striving  to  crack  those  oracular  nuts  from  Delphi, 
Hammon,  and  elsewhere,  in  only  one  of  which  can  I  so 
much  as  surmise  that  any  kernel  had  ever  lodged  ; 
that,  namely,  wherein  Apollo  confessed  that  he  was 
mortal.  One  Didymus  is,  moreover,  related  to  have 
written  six  thousand  books  on  the  single  subject  of 
grammar,  a  topic  rendered  only  more  tenebrific  by  the 
labors  of  his  successors,  and  which  seems  still  to  pos 
sess  an  attraction  for  authors  in  proportion  as  they 
can  make  nothing  of  it.  A  singular  loadstone  for 
theologians,  also,  is  the  Beast  in  the  Apocalypse, 
whereof,  in  the  course  of  my  studies,  I  have  noted  two 
hundred  and  three  several  interpretations,  each  lethif- 
eral  to  all  the  rest.  Non  nostrum  est  tantas  componere 
lites,  yet  I  have  myself  ventured  upon  a  two  hundred 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  115 

and  fourth,  which  I  embodied  in  a  discourse  preached 
on  occasion  of  the  demise  of  the  late  usurper,  Napoleon 
Bonaparte,  and  which  quieted,  in  a  large  measure,  th« 
minds  of  my  people.  It  is  true  that  my  views  on 
this  important  point  were  ardently  controverted  by 
Mr.  Shearjashub  Holden,  the  then  preceptor  of  our 
academy,  and  in  other  particulars  a  very  deserving  and 
sensible  young  man,  though  possessing  a  somewhat 
limited  knowledge  of  the  Greek  tongue.  But  his 
heresy  struck  down  no  deep  root,  and,  he  having  been 
lately  removed  by  the. hand  of  Providence,  I  had  the 
satisfaction  of  reaffirming  my  cherished  sentiments  in  a 
sermon  preached  upon  the  Lord's  day  immediately  suc 
ceeding  his  funeral.  This  might  seem  like  taking  an 
unfair  advantage,  did  I  not  add  that  he  had  made  pro 
vision  in  his  last  will  (being  celibate)  for  the  publica 
tion  of  a  posthumous  tractate  in  support  of  his  own 
dangerous  opinions. 

I  know  of  nothing  in  our  modern  times  which 
approaches  so  nearly  to  the  ancient  oracle  as  the  letter 
of  a  Presidential  candidate.  Now,  among  the  Greeks, 
the  eating  of  beans  was  strictly  forbidden  to  all  such  as 
had  it  in  mind  to  consult  those  expert  amphibologists, 
and  this  same  prohibition  on  the  part  of  Pythagoras  to 
his  disciples  is  understood  to  imply  an  abstinence  from 
politics,  beans  having  been  used  as  ballots.  That  other 
explication,  quod  videlicet  sensus  eo  cibo  obtundi  existi- 
maret,  though  supported  pugnis  et  calcibus  by  many  of 
the  learned,  and  not  wanting  the  countenance  of 
Cicero,  is  confuted  by  the  larger  experience  of  New 
England.  On  the  whole,  I  think  it  safer  to  apply  here 
the  rule  of  interpretation  which  now  generally  obtains 
in  regard  to  antique  cosmogonies,  myths,  fables,  pro- 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

verbial  expressions,  and  knotty  points  generally,  which 
is,  to  find  a  common-sense  meaning,  and  then  select 
whatever  can  be  imagined  the  most  opposite  thereto. 
In  this  way  we  arrive  at  the  conclusion,  that  the  Greeks 
objected  to  the  questioning  of  candidates.  And  very 
properly,  if,  as  I  conceive,  the  chief  point  be  not  to 
discover  what  a  person  in  that  position  is,  or  what  he 
will  do,  but  whether  he  can  be  elected.  Vos  exemplaria 
GrcBca  nocturna  versate  manu,  versate  diurna. 

But,  since  an  imitation  of  the  Greeks  in  this  particu 
lar  (the  asking  of  questions  being  one  chief  privilege  of 
freemen)  is  hardly  to  be  hoped  for,  and  our  candidates 
will  answer,  whether  they  are  questioned  or  not,  I 
would  recommend  that  these  ante-electionary  dialogues 
should  be  carried  on  by  symbols,  as  were  the  diplomatic 
correspondences  of  the  Scythians  and  Macrobii,  or  con 
fined  to  the  language  of  signs,  like  the  famous  inter 
view  of  Panurge  and  Goatsnose.  A  candidate  might 
then  convey  a  suitable  reply  to  all  committees  of  inquiry 
by  closing  one  eye,  or  by  presenting  them  with  a  phial 
of  Egyptian  darkness  to  be  speculated  upon  by  their 
respective  constituencies.  These  answers  would  be 
susceptible  of  whatever  retrospective  construction  the 
exigencies  of  the  political  campaign  might  seem  to 
demand,  and  the  candidate  could  take  his  position  on 
either  side  of  the  fence  with  entire  consistency.  Or,  if 
letters  must  be  written,  profitable  use  might  be  made 
of  the  Dighton  rock  hieroglyphic  or  the  cuneiform 
script,  every  fresh  decipherer  of  which  is  enabled  to 
educe  a  different  meaning,  whereby  a  sculptured  stone 
or  two  supplies  us,  and  will  probably  continue  to  supply 
posterity,  with  a  very  vast  and  various  body  of  authen 
tic  history.  For  even  the  briefest  epistle  in  the  ordi- 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

nary  chirography  is  dangerous.  There  is  scarce  any 
style  so  compressed  that  superfluous  words  may  not  be 
detected  in  it.  A  severe  critic  might  curtail  that 
famous  brevity  of  Caesar's  by  two-thirds,  drawing  his 
pen  through  the  supererogatory  veni  and  vidi.  Per-' 
haps,  after  all,  the  surest  footing  of  hope  is  to  be  found 
in  the  rapidly  increasing  tendency  to  demand  less  and 
less  of  qualification  in  candidates.  Already  have  states 
manship,  experience,  and  the  possession  (nay,  the  pro 
fession,  even)  of  principles  been  rejected  as  superfluous, 
and  may  not  the  patriot  reasonably  hope  that  the  ability 
to  write  will  follow  ?  At  present,  there  may  be  death 
in  pot-hooks  as  well  as  pots,  the  loop  of  a  letter  may 
suffice  for  a  bow-string,  and  all  the  dreadful  heresies  of 
Anti-slavery  may  lurk  in  a  flourish. — H.  W.] 


NO.  vm. 

A  SECOND  LETTER  FROM  B.  SAWIN,  ESQ. 

[Lsr  the  following  epistle,  we  behold  Mr.  Sawin  re 
turning,  a  miles  emeritus,  to  the  bosom  of  his  family. 
Quantum  mutatus!  The  good  Father  of  us  all  had 
doubtless  intrusted  to  the  keeping  of  this  child  of  his 
certain  faculties  of  a  constructive  kind.  He  had  put 
in  him  a  share  of  that  vital  force,  the  nicest  economy  of 
every  minute  atom  of  which  is  necessary  to  the  perfect 
development  of  Humanity.  He  had  given  him  a  brain 
and  heart,  and  so  had  equipped  his  soul  with  the  two 
strong  wings  of  knowledge  and  love,  whereby  it  can 
mount  to  hang  its  nest  under  the  eaves  of  heaven. 
And  this  child,  so  dowered,  he  had  intrusted  to  the 
keeping  of  his  vicar,  the  State.  How  stands  the  ac 
count  of  that  stewardship  ?  The  State,  or  Society, 
(call  her  by  what  name  you  will, )  had  taken  no  manner 
of  thought  of  him  till  she  saw  him  swept  out  into  the 
street,  the  pitiful  leavings  of  last  night's  debauch, 
with  cigar-ends,  lemon-parings,  tobacco-quids,  slops, 
vile  stenches,  and  the  whole  loathsome  next-morning  of 
the  barroom, — an  own  child  of  the  Almighty  God  !  I 
remember  him  as  he  was  brought  to  be  christened,  a 
ruddy,  rugged  babe  ;  and  now  there  he  wallows,  reeking, 
seething, — the  dead  corpse,  not  of  a  man,  but  of  a  soul, 
— a  putrefying  lump,  horrible  for  the  life  that  is  in  it. 
Comes  the  wind  of  heaven,  that  good  Samaritan,  and 
118 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  119 

parts  the  hair  upon  his  forehead,  nor  is  too  nice  to  kiss 
those  parched,  cracked  lips  ,  the  morning  opens  upon 
him  her  eyes  full  of  pitying  sunshine,  the  sky  yearns 
down  to  him, — and  ther  he  lies  fermenting.  0  sleep  ! 
let  me  not  profane  thy  holy  name  by  calling  that 
stertorous  unconsciousness  a  slumber  !  By  and  by 
comes  along  the  State,  God's  vicar.  Does  she  say, — 
"  My  poor,  forlorn  foster-child  !  Behold  here  a  force 
which  I  will  make  dig  and  plant  and  build  for  me  ?  " 
Not  so,  but, — "Here  is  a  recruit  ready-made  to  my 
hand,  a  piece  of  destroying  energy  lying  uprofitably 
idle."  So  she  claps  an  ugly  gray  suit  on  him,  puts  a 
musket  in  his  grasp,  and  sends  him  off,  with  Guber 
natorial  and  other  godspeeds,  to  do  duty  as  a  destroyer. 
I  made  one  of  the  crowd  at  the  last  Mechanics'  Fair, 
and,  with  the  rest,  stood  gazing  in  wonder  at  a  perfect 
machine,  with  its  soul  of  fire,  its  boiler-heart  that  sent 
the  hot  blood  pulsing  along  the  iron  arteries,  and  its 
thews  of  steel.  And  while  I  was  admiring  the  adapta 
tion  of  means  to  end,  the  harmonious  involutions  of  con 
trivance,  and  the  never-bewildered  complexity,  I  saw  a 
grimed  and  greasy  fellow,  the  imperious  engine's  lackey 
and  drudge,  whose  sole  office  was  to  let  fall,  at  intervals, 
a  drop  or  two  of  oil  upon  a  certain  joint.  Then  my  soul 
said  within  me,  See  there  a  piece  of  mechanism  to  which 
that  other  you  marvel  at  is  but  as  the  rude  first  effort 
of  a  child, — a  force  which  not  merely  suffices  to  set  a 
few  wheels  in  motion,  but  which  can  send  an  impulse 
all  through  the  infinite  future, — a  contrivance,  not 
for  turning  out  pins,  or  stitching  buttonholes,  but  for 
making  Hamlets  and  Lears.  And  yet  this  thing  of  iron 
shall  be  housed,  waited  on,  guarded  from  rust  and  dust, 
and  it  shall  be  a  crime  but  so  much  as  to  scratch  it  with 


120  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

a  pin  ;  while  the  other,  with  its  fire  of  God  in  it  shall 
be  buffeted  hither  and  thither,  and  finally  sent  carefully 
a  thousand  miles  to  be  the  target  for  a  Mexican  cannon- 
ball.  Unthrifty  Mother  State !  My  heart  burned 
within  me  for  pity  and  indignation,  and  I  renewed  this 
covenant  with  my  own  soul, — In  aliis  mansuetus  ero, 
at}  in  Uasphemiis  contra  Christum,  non  ita. — H.  W.j 


I  SPOSE  you  wonder  ware  I  be  ;  I  can't  tell,  f  er  the  soul 

o'  me, 
Exacly  ware  I  be  myself, — meanin'  by  thet  the  holl  o* 

me. 
Wen  I  left  hum,  I  hed  two  legs,  an'  they  worn't  bad 

ones  neither, 
(The  scaliest  trick  they  ever  played  wuz  bringin'  on  me 

hither,) 
Now  one  on  'em  's  I  dunno  ware  ; — they  thought  I  wuz 

adyin', 
An'  sawed  it  off  because  they  said  'twuz  kin'  o'  mor- 

tifyin' ; 

I'm  willin'  to  believe  it  wuz,  an'  yit  I  don't  see,  nuther, 
Wy  one  should  take  to  f  eelin'  cheap  a  minnit  sooner  'n 

t'other, 
Sence  both  wuz  equilly  to  blame ;  but  things  is  ez  they 

be ; 

It  took  on  so  they  took  it  off,  an'  thet 's  enough  fer  me  : 
There  's  one  good  thing,  though,  to  be  said  about  my 

wooden  new  one, — 

The  liquor  can't  git  into  it  ez  't  used  to  in  the  true  one  ; 
So  it  saves  drink  ;  an'  then,  besides,  a  feller  could  n't 

beg 
A  gretter  blessin'  then  to  hev  one  oilers  sober  peg  ; 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  121 

It  's  true  a  chap  's  in  want  o'  two  fer  follerin'  a  drum, 
But  all  the  march  I  'm  up  to  now  is  jest  to  Kingdom. 
Come. 

I  've  lost  one  eye,  but  thet  's  a  loss  it  's  easy  to  supply 
Out  o'  the  glory  thet  I  've  gut,  fer  thet  is  all  my  eye  ; 
An'  one'is  big  enough,  I  guess,  by  diligently  usin'  it, 
To  see  all  I  shall  ever  git  by  way  o'  pay  fer  losin'  it ; 
Off'cers,  I  notice,  who  git  paid  fer  all  our  thumps  an' 

kickius, 

Du  wal  by  keepin'  single  eyes  arter  the  fattest  picking  ; 
So,  ez  the  eye  's  put  fairly  out,  I  '11  larn  to  go  with 
out  it, 

An'  not  allow  myself  to  be  no  gret  put  out  about  it. 
Now,  le'  me  see,  thet  is  n't  all  ;  I  used,  'fore  leavin' 

Jaalam, 
To  count  things  on  my  finger-eends,  but  sutthin'  seems 

to  ail  'em  : 
"Ware  's  my  left  hand  ?     0,  darn  it,  yes,  I  recollect  wut  's 

come  on  't ; 
I  hain't  no  left  arm  but  my'right,  an'  thet 's  gut  jest  a 

thumb  on  't ; 

It  ain't  so  hendy  ez  it  wuz  to  cal'late  a  sum  on  't. 
I  've  had   some   ribs  broke, — six  (I  b'lieve),— I  hain't 

kep'  no  account  on  'em  ; 
Wen  pensions  git  to  be  the  talk,  I  '11  settle  the  amount 

on  'em. 
An'  now  I  'm   speakin'  about  ribs,  it  kin'  o'  brings  to 

mind 

One  thet  I  could  n't  never  break, — the  one  I  lef '  be 
hind  ; 
Ef  you  should  see  her,  jest  clear  out  the  spout  o'  your 

invention 


122  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

An'  pour  the  longest   sweetnin'  in  about  an  annooal 

pension, 
An'  kin  o'  hint  (in  case,  you  know,  the  critter  should 

refuse  to  be 
Consoled)  I  ain't  so  'xpensive  now  to  keep  ez  wut  I  used 

to  be ; 
There  'a  one  arm  less,  ditto  one  eye,  an'  then  the  leg 

thet  's  wooden 
Can  be  took  off  an'  sot  away  wenever  ther'  's  a  puddin'. 

I  spose  you  think   I  'm  comin'  back   ez  opperlunt  ez 

thunder, 

With  shiploads  o'  gold  images  an'  varus  sorts  o'  plunder  ; 
Wai,  'fore  I  vullinteered,  I  thought  this  country  wuz  a 

sort  o' 
Canaan,  a  reg'lar  Promised  Land  nowin'  with  rum  an* 

water, 

Ware  propaty  growed  up  like  time,  without  no  cultiva 
tion, 
An'  gold  wuz  dug  ez  taters   be   among  our   Yankee 

nation, 

Ware  nateral  advantages  were  pufficly  amazin', 
Ware  every  rock  there  wuz  about  with  precious  stuns 

wuz  blazin', 
Ware  mill-sites  filled  the  country  up  ez  thick  ez  you 

could  cram  'em, 

An'  desput  rivers  run  about  abeggin'  folks  to  dam  'em  ; 
Then  there  were  meetinhouses,  tu,  chockful  o'  gold  an' 

silver 
Thet  you  could  take,  an'  no  one  could  n't  hand  ye  in  no 

bill  fer  ;— 
Thet 's  wut  I  thought  afore  I  went,  thet 's  wut  them 

fellers  told  u» 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  123 

Thet  stayed  to  hum  an'  speechified  an'  to  the  buzzards 

sold  us  ; 
I  thought  thet  gold,  mines  could  be  gut  cheaper  than 

china  asters, 

An'  see  myself  acomin'  back  like  sixty  Jacob  Astors  ; 
But  sech  idees  soon  melted  down  an'  did  n't  leave  a 

grease-spot ; 
I  vow  my  holl  sheer  o'  the  spiles  would  n't  come  nigh 

a  V  spot ; 
Although,  most  any  wares  we  've  ben,  you  need  n't  break 

no  locks, 
Nor  run  no  kin'  o'  risks,  to  fill  your  pocket  full  o' 

rocks. 
I  guess  I  mentioned  in  my  last  some  o'  the  nateral 

feeturs 
O'  this  all-fiered  buggy  hole  in  th'  way  o'  awfle  cree- 

turs, 
But  I  fergnt  to  name   (new  things  to  speak   on  so 

abounded) 
How  one  day  you  '11  most  die  o'  thust,  an'  'fore  the  next 

git  drownded. 
The  clymit  seems  to  me  just  like  a  teapot  made  o' 

pewter 
Our  Prudence  hed,  thet  would  n't  pour  (all  she  could 

du)  to  suit  her ; 
Fust  place  the  leaves  'ould  choke  the  spout,  so  's  not  a 

drop  'ould  dreen  out, 
Then  Prude  'ould  tip  an'  tip  an'  tip,  till  the  holl  kit 

bust  clean  out, 
The  kiver-hinge-pin  bein'  lost,  tea-leaves  an'  tea  an' 

kiver 
'ould  all  come  down  kerswosh  !  ez  though  the  dam  broke 

in  a  river. 


124  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Jest  so  't  is  here  ;  holl  months  there  ain't  a  day  o'  rainy 

Aveather, 

An*  jest    ez    th'   officers    'ould    be    alayin'  heads   to 
gether 
Ez  t'  how  they  'd  mix  their  drink  at  sech  a  milingtary 

deepot, — 
'T  'ould  pour  ez  though  the  lid  wuz  off  the  everlastin' 

teapot. 
The  cous'qnence  is,  thet  I  shall  take,  wen  I'm  allowed 

to  leave  here, 
One  piece  o'  propaty  along, — an'  thet  's  the  shakin' 

fever  ; 
It 's  reggilar  employment,  though,  an'  thet  ain't  thought 

to  harm  one, 
Nor  't  ain't  so  tiresome  ez  it  wuz  with  t'  other  leg  an' 

arm  on ; 

An'  it 's  a  consolation,  tu,  although  it  does  n't  pay, 
To  hev  it  said  you're  some  gret  shakes  in  any  kin'  o' 

way. 
'T  worn't  very  long,  I  tell  ye  wut,  I  thought  o'  fortin- 

makin', — 
One  day  a  reg'lar  shiver-de-freeze,  an'  next  ez  good  ez 

bakin', — 
One  day  abrilin'  in  the  sand,   then  smoth'rin'  in  the 

mashes, — 
Git  up  all  sound,  be  put  to  bed  a  mess  o'  hacks  an' 

smashes. 
But  then,  thinks  I,   at  any  rate  there  's  glory  to  be 

hed, — 
Thet 's  an  investment,  arter  all,  that  may  n't  turn  out 

so  bad ; 
But  somehow,  wen  we  'd  fit  an'  licked,  I  oilers  found 

the  thanks 


THE  B1GLOW  PAPERS.  125 

Gut  kin'  o'  lodged  afore  they  come  ez  low  down  ez  the 

ranks  ; 
The  Gin'rals  gut  the  biggest  sheer,  the  Gunnies  next, 

an'  so  on, — 

We  never  gut  a  blasted  mite  o'  glory  ez  I  know  on  ; 
An'  spose  we  hed,   I  wonder  how  you're  goin'  to  con 
trive  its 
Division   so   's  to  give  a  piece  to   twenty   thousand 

privits ; 
Ef  you  should  multiply  by  ten  the  portion  o'  the  brav'st 

one, 
You  would  n't  git  more  'n  half  enough  to  speak  of  on  a 

grave-stun  ; 
We  git  the  licks, — we  're  jest  the  grist  thet  's  put  into 

War's  hoppers  ; 
Leftenants  is  the  lowest  grade  thet  helps  pick  up  the 

coppers. 

It  may  suit  folks  thet  go  agin  a  body  with  a  soul  in  't, 
An'  ain't  contented  with  a  hide  without  a  bagnet  hole 

in't; 

But  glory  is  a  kin'  o'  thing  /  shan't  pursue  no  furder, 
Goz  thet 's  the  off'cers  parquisite, — yourn  's  on'y  jest 

the  murder. 

Wai,  arter  I  gin  glory  up,  thinks  I  at  least  there  's  one 
Thing  in  the  bills  we  ain't  hed  yit,  an'  thet 's  the  GLORI 
OUS  FUST  ; 

Ef  once  we  git  to  Mexico,  we  fairly  may  presume  we 
All  day  an'  night  shall  revel  in  the  halls  o'  Montezumy. 
I  '11  tell  ye  wut  my  revels  wuz,  an'  see  how  you  would 

like  'em ; 

We  never  gut  inside  the  hall  :  the  nighest  ever  /  come 
Wuz  stan'in'  sentry  in  the  sun  (an',  fact,  it  seemed  a 

cent'ry) 


126  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

A  ketchin'  smells  o'  biled  an'  roast  thet  come  out  thru 

the  entry, 

An'  hearin',  ez  I  sweltered  thru  my  passes  an'  repasses, 
A   rat-tat-too  o'  knives  an'   forks,    a   clinkty-clink  o' 

glasses  : 

I  can't  tell  off  the  bill  o'  fare  the  Gin'rals  hed  inside ; 
All  I  know,  is,  thet  out  o'  doors  a  pair  o'  soles  wuz  fried, 
An'  not  a  hundred  miles  away  frum  ware  this  child  wuz 

posted, 

A  Massachusetts  citizen  wuz  baked  an'  biled  an'  roasted  ; 
The  on'y  thing  like  revellin'  thet  ever  come  to  me 
Wuz  bein'  routed  out  o'  sleep  by  thet  darned  revelee. 


They  say  the  quarrel  's  settled  now  ;  fer  my  part  I  've 

some  doubt  on  't, 
'T  '11  take  more  fish-skin  than  folks  think  to  take  the 

rile  clean  out  on  't ; 

At  any  rate,  I  'm  so  used  up  I  can't  do  no  more  fightin', 
The  on'y  chance  thet  's  left  to  me  is  politics  or  writin' ; 
Now,  ez  the  people  's  gut  to  hev  a  milingtary  man, 
An'  I  ain't  nothin'else  jest  now,  I  've  hit  upon  a  plan  ; 
The  can'idatin'  line,  you  know,  'ould  suit  me  to  a  T, 
An'  ef  I  lose,  't  wunt  hurt  my  ears  to  lodge  another 

flea ; 

So  I  fll  set  up  ez  can'idate  fer  any  kin*  o'  office, 
(I   mean   fer  any  thet  includes  good   easy-cheers  an' 

soffies  ; 
Fer  ez  to  runnin'  fer  a  place  ware  work  's  the  time  o' 

day, 
You  know  thet 's  wut  I  never  did, — except  the  other 

way;) 
Ef  it 's  the  Presidential  cheer  fer  wich  I  'd  better  run, 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  127 

Wut  two  legs  anywares  about  could  keep  up  with  my 
one  ? 

There  ain't  no  kin'  o'  quality  in  can'idates,  it 's  said, 

So  useful  ez  a  wooden  leg, — except  a  wooden  head ; 

There's  nothin'  ain't  so  poppylar — (wy,  it 's  a  parf  ect  sin 

To  think  wut  Mexico  hez  paid  f er  Santy  Anny's  pin  ;) — 

Then  I  hain't  gut  no  principles,  an',  sence  I  wuz  knee- 
high, 

I  never  did  hev  any  gret,  ez  you  can  testify  ; 

I'm  decided  peace-man,  tu,  an'  go  agin  the  war, — 

Fer  now  the  holl  on  't  's  gone  an'  past,  wut  is  there  to 
go  for? 

Ef,  wile  you  're  'lectioneerin'  round,  some  curus  chaps 
should  beg 

To  know  my  views  3'  state  affairs,  jest  answer  WOODEN 
LEG  ! 

Ef  they  ain't  settisfied  with  thet,  an'  kin'  o'  pry  an' 
doubt 

An'  ax  fersutthin'  deffynit,  jest  say  ONE  EYE  PUT  OUT  ! 

Thet  kin'  o'  talk  I  guess  you  '11  find  '11  answer  to  a 
charm, 

An'  wen  you  're  druv  tu  nigh  the  wall,  hoi'  up  my  miss- 
in'  arm ; 

Ef  they  should  nose  round  fer  a  pledge,  put  on  a 
vartoou-  look 

An'  tell  'em  thet  's  precisely  wut  I  never  gin  nor — took  I 

Then  you  can  call  me  "  Timbertoes," — that's  wut  the 

people  likes  ; 
Sutthin'  combinin'  morril  truth  with  phrases  sech  ez 

strikes ; 
Some  say  the  people  's  fond  o'  this,  or  thet,  or  wut  you 

please, — 


128  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  tell  ye  wut  the  people  want  is  jest  correct  idees  ; 

"  Old  Timbertoes,"  you  see,  's  a  creed  it 's  safe  to  be 

quite  bold  on, 
Ther  's  nothin'  in  't  the  other  side  can  any  ways  git 

hold  on  ; 

It 's  a  good  tangible  idee,  a  sutthin'  to  embody 
Thet  valooable   class  o'  men  who  look  thru  brandy- 
toddy  ; 

It  gives  a  Party  Platform,  tu,  jest  level  with  the  mind 
Of  all  right-thinkin',  honest  folks  thet  mean  to  go  it 

blind  ; 
Then  there  air  other  good  hooraws  to  dror  on  ez  you 

need  'em, 
Sech  ez  the  ONE-EYED  SLARTERER,  the  BLOODY  BIRDO- 

FREDUM  : 
Them  's  wnt  takes  hold  o'  folks  thet  think,  ez  well  ez  o* 

the  masses, 
An*  makes  you  sartin  o'  the  aid  o'  good  men  of  all 

classes. 

There  's  one  thing  I  'm  in  doubt  about ;  in  order  to  be 

Presidunt, 

It 's  absolutely  ne'ssary  to  be  a  Southern  residunt ; 
The  Constitution  settles  thet,  an'  also  thet  a  feller 
Must  own  a  nigger  o'  some  sort,  jet  black,  or  brown,  or 

yeller. 

Now  I  hain't  no  objections  agin  particklar  climes, 
Nor  agin  ownin'  anythin'  (except  the  truth  sometimes), 
But,  ez  I  hain't  no  capital,  up  there  among  ye,  may  be, 
You  might  raise  funds  enough  fer  me  to  buy  a  low- 
priced  baby, 

An'  then,  to  suit  the  No'thern  folks,  who  feel  obleeged 
to  say 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  129 

They  hate  an'  cuss  the  very  thing  they  vote  fer  every 

day, 

Say  you're  assured  I  go  full  butt  fer  Libbaty's  diffusion 
An'  made  the  purchis  on'y  jest  to  spite  the  Institoo- 

tion ; — 
But,  golly  !  there's  the  currier's  hoss  upon  the  pavement 

pawin'  ! 

I'll  be  more  'xplicit  in  my  next. 
Yourn, 

BIEDOFREDUM  SAWIN. 

[We  have  now  a  tolerably  fair  chance  of  estimating 
how  the  balance-sheet  stands  between  our  returned 
volunteer  and  glory.  Supposing  the  entries  to  be  set 
down  on  both  sides  of  the  account  in  fractional  parts 
of  one  hundred,  we  shall  arrive  at  something  like  the 
following  result  : — 

Cr.  B.  SAWIN,  Esq.,  in  account  with  (BLANK)  GLORY.  Dr. 
By  loss  of  one  leg,     .     .  20  To  one  675th  three  cheers  in 
'     do.     one  arm,      .      15    Faneuil  Hall,      ...      30 
'     do.     four  fingers,    .    5  "          do.  do.  on 

'    do.    One  eye,        .      10    occasion    of    presentation    of 
'the  breaking  of  six  ribs,  6     sword  to    Colonel  Wright,     25 
'having  served  under         "        one  suit  of  gray  clothes 
Colonel  Gushing  one  (ingeniously    unbecoming),   15 

month,  44  "    musical     entertainments 

(drum  and  fife  six  months),  5 
"  one-  dinner  after  return,        1 
"  chance    of    pension,         .        1 
"  privilege  of  drawing  long 
bow  during  rest  of  natural 
life, 28 

100  100 

E.  E. 


130  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS, 

It  would  appear  that  Mr.  Sawin  found  the  actual 
feast  curiously  the  reverse  of  the  bill  of  fare  advertised 
in  Fanenil  Hall  and  other  places.  His  primary  object 
seems  to  have  been  the  making  of  his  fortune.  Quce- 
renda pecunia  primum,  virtus  post  nummos.  He  hoisted 
sail  for  Eldorado,  and  shipwrecked  on  Point  Tribula 
tion.  Quid  non  mortalia pectora  cogis  auri  sacra  fames  V 
The  speculation  has  sometimes  crossed  my  mind,  in  that 
dreary  interval  of  drought  which  intervenes  between 
quarterly  stipendiary  showers,  that  Providence,  by  the 
creation  of  a  money-tree,  might  have  simplified  wonder 
fully  the  sometimes  perplexing  problem  of  human  life. 
We  read  of  bread-trees,  the  butter  for  which  lies  ready 
churned  in  Irish  bogs.  Milk-trees  we  are  assured  of  in 
South  America,  and  stout  Sir  John  Hawkins  testifies 
to  water-trees  in  the  Canaries.  Boot-trees  bear  abun 
dantly  in  Lynn  and  elsewhere  ;  and  I  have  seen,  in  the 
entries  of  the  wealthy,  hat-trees  with  a  fair  show  of 
fruit.  A  family-tree  I  once  cultivated  myself,  and 
found  therefrom  but  a  scanty  yield,  and  that  quite 
tasteless  and  innutritious.  Of  trees  bearing  men  we 
are  not  without  examples  ;  as  those  in  the  park  of  Louis 
the  Eleventh  of  France.  Who  has  forgotten,  moreover, 
that  olive-tree,  growing  in  the  Athenian's  back-garden 
with  its  strange  uxorious  crop,  for  the  general  propa 
gation  of  which,  as  of  a  new  and  precious  variety,  the 
philosopher  Diogenes,  hitherto  uninterested  in  arbori 
culture,  was  so  zealous  ?  In  the  sylva  of  our  own 
Southern  States,  the  females  of  my  family  have  called 
my  attention  to  the  china-tree.  Not  to  multiply  ex 
amples,  I  will  barely  add  to  my  list  the  birch-tree,  in 
the  smaller  branches  of  which  has  been  implanted  so 
miraculous  a  virtue  for  communicating  the  Latin  and 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  131 

Greek  languages,  and  which  may  well,  therefore,  b« 
classed  among  the  trees  producing  necessaries  of  life, — 
venerabile  donum  fatalis  virgce.  That  money-trees  ex 
isted  in  the  golden  age  there  want  not  prevalent  reasons 
for  our  believing.  For  does  not  the  old  proverb,  when 
it  asserts  that  money  does  not  grow  on  every  bush,  imply 
a  fortiori  that  there  were  certain  bushes  which  did 
produce  it  ?  Again,  there  is  another  ancient  saw  to 
the  effect  that  money  is  the  root  of  all  evil.  From 
which  two  adages  it  may  be  safe  to  infer  that  the  afore 
said  species  of  tree  first  degenerated  into  a  shrub,  then 
absconded  underground,  and  finally,  in  our  iron  age, 
vanished  altogether.  In  favorable  exposures  it  may  be 
conjectured  that  a  specimen  or  two  survived  to  a  great 
age,  as  in  the  garden  of  the  Hesperides  ;  and,  indeed, 
what  else  could  that  tree  in  the  Sixth  JSneid  have  been, 
with  a  branch  whereof  the  Trojan  hero  procured  ad 
mission  to  a  territory,  for  the  entering  of  which  money 
is  a  surer  passport  than  to  a  certain  other  more  profit 
able  (too)  foreign  kingdom  ?  Whether  these  specula 
tions  of  mine  have  any  force  in  them,  or  whether  they 
will  not  rather,  by  most  readers,  be  deemed  impertinent 
to  the  matter  in  hand,  is  a  question  which  I  leave  to 
the  determination  of  an  indulgent  posterity.  That 
there  were,  in  more  primitive  and  happier  times,  shops 
where  money  was  sold,  — and  that,  too,  on  credit  and  at 
a  bargain, — I  take  to  be  matter  of  demonstration.  For 
what  but  a  dealer  in  this  article  was  that  ^Eolus  who 
supplied  Ulysses  with  motive  power  for  his  fleet  in 
bags  ?  What  that  Ericus,  king  of  Sweden,  who  is  said 
to  have  kept  the  winds  in  his  cap  ?  What,  in  more 
recent  times,  those  Lapland  Nornas  who  traded  in 
favorable  breezes  ?  All  which  will  appear  the  more 


132  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

clearly  when  we  consider,  that,  even  to  this  day,  rais 
ing  the  wind  is  proverbial  for  raising  money,  and  that 
brokers  and  banks  were  invented  by  the  Venetians  at  a 
later  period. 

And  now  for  the  improvement  of  this  digression.  I 
find  a  parallel  to  Mr.  Sawin's  fortune  in  an  adventure 
of  my  own.  For,  shortly  after  I  had  first  broached  to 
myself  the  before-stated  natural-historical  and  archseo- 
logical  theories,  as  I  was  passing,  hcec  negotia  pemtus 
mecum  revolvens,  through  one  of  the  obscure  suburbs  of 
our  New  England  metropolis,  my  eye  was  attracted  by 
these  words  upon  a  signboard, — CHEAP  CASH-STOKE. 
Here  was  at  once  the  confirmation  of  my  speculations, 
and  the  substance  of  my  hopes.  Here  lingered  the 
fragment  of  a  happier  past,  or  stretched  out  the  first 
tremulous  organic  filament  of  a  more  fortunate  future. 
Thus  glowed  the  distant  Mexico  to  the  eyes  of  Sawin, 
as  he  looked  through  the  dirty  pane  of  the  recruiting- 
office  window,  or  speculated  from  the  summit  of  that 
mirage-Pisgah  which  the  imps  of  the  bottle  are  so  cun 
ning  in  raising  up.  Already  had  my  Alnaschar-fancy 
(even  during  that  first  half-believing  glance)  expended 
in  various  useful  directions  the  funds  to  be  obtained 
by  pledging  the  manuscript  of  a  proposed  volume  of 
discourses.  Already  did  a  clock  ornament  the  tower 
of  the  Jaalam  meeting-house,  a  gift  appropriately,  but 
modestly,  commemorated  in  the  parish  and  town 
records,  both,  for  now  many  years,  kept  by  myself. 
Already  had  my  son  Seneca  completed  his  course  at  the 
University.  Whether,  for  the  moment,  we  may  not  be 
considered  as  actually  lording  it  over  those  Baratarias 
with  the  viceroyalty  of  which  Hope  invests  us,  and 
whether  we  are  ever  so  warmly  housed  as  in  our  Span- 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  133 

ish  castles,  would  afford  matter  of  argument.  Enough 
that  I  found  that  signboard  to  be  110  other  than  a  bait 
to  the  trap  of  a  decayed  grocer.  Nevertheless,  I  bought 
a  pound  of  dates  (getting  short  weight  by  reason  of  im 
mense  flights  of  harpy  flies  who  pursued  and  lighted 
upon  their  prey  even  in  the  very  scales),  which  pur 
chase  I  made,  not  only  with  an  eye  to  the  little  ones  at 
home,  but  also  as  a  figurative  reproof  of  that  too  fre 
quent  habit  of  my  mind,  which,  forgetting  the  due  order 
of  chronology,  will  often  persuade  me  that  the  happy 
sceptre  of  Saturn  is  stretched  over  this  Astraea-forsaken 
nineteenth  century. 

Having  glanced  at  the  ledger  of  Glory  under  the  title 
Sawin,  B.,  let  us  extend  our  investigations,  and  dis 
cover  if  that  instructive  volume  does  not  contain  some 
charges  more  personally  interesting  to  ourselves.  I 
think  we  should  be  more  economical  of  our  resources, 
did  we  thoroughly  appreciate  the  fact,  that,  whenever 
Brother  Jonathan  seems  to  be  thrusting  his  hand  into 
his  own  pocket,  he  is,  in  fact,  picking  ours.  I  confess 
that  the  late  muck  which  the  country  has  been  running 
has  materially  changed  my  views  as  to  the  best  method 
of  raising  revenue.  If,  by  means  of  direct  taxation, 
the  bills  for  every  extraordinary  outlay  were  brought 
under  our  immediate  eye,  so  that,  like  thrifty  house 
keepers,  we  could  see  where  and  how  fast  the  money 
was  going,  we  should  be  less  likely  to  commit  extrava 
gances.  At  present,  these  things  are  managed  in  such 
a  hugger-mugger  way,  that  we  know  not  what  we  pay 
for ;  the  poor  man  is  charged  as  much  as  the  rich  ; 
and,  while  we  are  saving  and  scrimping  at  the  spigot, 
the  government  is  drawing  off  at  the  bung.  If  we 
could  know  that  a  part  of  the  money  we  expend  for 


134:  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

tea  and  coffee  goes  to  buy  powder  and  balls,  and  that 
it  is  Mexican  blood  which  makes  the  clothes  on  oar 
backs  more  costly,  it  would  set  some  of  us  athinking. 
Daring  the  present  fall,  I  have  often  pictured  to  my 
self  a  government  official  entering  my  study  and  hand 
ing  me  the  following  bill : — 

WASHINGTON,  Sept.  30, 1848. 
REV.  HOMER  WILBUR  to  TUncle  Samuel,  Dr. 

To  his  share  of  work  done  in  Mexico  on  partnership 
account,  sundry  jobs,  as  below. 

"  killing,  maiming,  and  wounding  about  5,000  Mex 
icans,  $  2.00 

"slaughtering     one     woman     carrying     water     to 

wounded,  ........        .10 

"  extra  work  on  two  different  Sabbaths  (one  bom 
bardment  and  one  assault)  whereby  the  Mex 
icans  were  prevented  from  defiling  themselves 
with  the  idolatries  of  high  mass,  .  .  .  3.50 

"  throwing  an  especially  fortunate  and  Protestant 
bombshell  into  the  Cathedral  at  Vera  Cruz, 
whereby  several  female  Papists  were  slain  at 
the  altar, .50 

"his  proportion  of  cash  paid  for  conquered  terri 
tory,  1.75 

"his  proportion  do  for  conquering  terri 
tory,  1.50 

"manuring  do.   with    new  superior  compost    called 

"  American  Citizen," .50 

"extending  the  area  of  freedom  and  Protestantism,        .01 

"glory, 01 


$9.87 
Immediate  payment  is  requested. 

N.  B.    Thankful  for  former  favors,  U.  8.  requests  a  con. 
t  i nuance  of  patronage.     Orders  executed  with  neatness  and 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  135 

despatch.    Terms  as  low  as  those  of  any  other  contractor 
for  the  same  kind  and  style  of  work. 

[I  can  fancy  the  official  answering  my  look  of  horror 
with,, — "  Yes,  Sir,  it  looks  like  a  high  charge,  Sir  ;  but 
in  these  days  slaughtering  is  slaughtering."  Verily,  I 
would  that  every  one  understood  that  it  was ;  for  it 
goes  about  obtaining  money  under  the  false  pretence  of 
being  glory.  For  me,  I  have  an  imagination  which 
plays  me  uncomfortable  tricks.  It  happens  to  me 
sometimes  to  see  a  slaughterer  on  his  way  home  from 
his  day's  work,  and  forthwith  my  imagination  puts  a 
cocked-hat  upon  his  head  and  epaulettes  upon  his 
shoulders,  and  sets  him  up  as  a  candidate  for  the 
Presidency.  So,  also,  on  a  recent  public  occasion,  as 
the  place  assigned  to  the  "  Eeverend  Clergy "  is  just 
behind  that  of  "  Officers  of  the  Army  and  Navy  "  in 
processions,  it  was  my  fortune  to  be  seated  at  the  din 
ner-table  over  against  one  of  these  respectable  persons. 
He  was  arrayed  as  (out  of  his  own  profession)  only  kings, 
court-officers,  and  footmen  are  in  Europe,  and  Indians 
in  America.  Now  what  does  my  over-officious  imagi 
nation  but  set  to  work  upon  him,  strip  him  of  his  gay 
livery,  and  present  him  to  me  coatless,  his  trowsers 
thrust  into  the  tops  of  a  pair  of  boots  thick  with  clotted 
blood,  and  a  basket  on  his  arm  out  of  which  lolled  a 
gore-smeared  axe,  thereby  destroying  my  relish  for  the 
temporal  mercies  upon  the  board  before  me  ? — H.  W.] 


No.  IX. 
A  THIRD  LETTER  FROM  B.  SAWIN,  ESQ. 

[UPON"  the  following  letter  slender  comment  will  be 
needful.  In  what  river  Selemnus  has  Mr.  Sawin 
bathed,  that  he  has  become  so  swiftly  oblivious  of  his 
fomer  loves  ?  From  an  ardent  and  (as  befits  a  soldier) 
confident  wooer  of  that  coy  bride,  the  popular  favor, 
we  see  him  subside  of  a  sudden  into  the  (I  trust  not 
jilted)  Cincinuatus,  returning  to  his  plough  with  a 
goodly-sized  branch  of  willow  in  his  hand  ;  figuratively 
returning,  however,  to  a  figurative  plough,  and  from 
no  profound  affection  for  that  honored  implement  of 
husbandry,  (for  which,  indeed,  Mr.  Sawin  never  dis 
played  any  decided  predilection,)  but  in  order  to  be 
gracefully  summoned  therefrom  to  more  congenial 
labors.  It  would  seem  that  the  character  of  the  an 
cient  Dictator  had  become  part  of  the  recognized  stock 
of  our  modern  political  comedy,  though,  as  our  term  of 
office  extends  to  a  quadrennial  length,  the  parallel  is 
not  so  minutely  exact  as  could  be  desired.  It  is  suffi 
ciently  so,  however,  for  purposes  of  scenic  representa 
tion.  An  humble  cottage  (if  built  of  logs,  the  better) 
forms  the  Arcadian  background  of  the  stage.  This 
rustic  paradise  is  labelled  Ashland,  Jaalam,  North 
Bend,  Marshfield,  Kinderhook,  or  Baton  Rouge,  as 
occasion  demands.  Before  the  door  stands  a  something 
136 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  137 

with  one  handle  (the  other  painted  in  proper  perspec 
tive),  which  represents,  in  happy  ideal  vagueness,  the 
plough.  To  this  the  defeated  candidate  rushes  with 
delirious  joy,  welcomed  as  a  father  by  appropriate 
groups  of  happy  laborers,  or  from  it  the  successful  one 
is  torn  with  difficulty,  sustained  alone  by  a  noble 
sense  of  public  duty.  Only  I  have  observed,  that,  if 
the  scene  be  laid  at  Baton  Eouge  or  Ashland,  the 
laborers  are  kept  carefully  in  the  background,  and  are 
heard  to  shout  from  behind  the  scenes  in  a  singular 
tone  resembling  ululation,  and  accompanied  by  a  sound 
not  unlike  vigorous  clapping.  This,  however,  may  be 
artistically  in  keeping  with  the  habits  of  the  rustic 
population  of  those  localities.  The  precise  connection 
between  agricultural  pursuits  and  statesmanship  I  have 
not  been  able,  after  diligent  inquiry,  to  discover.  But, 
that  my  investigations  may  not  be  barren  of  all  fruit,  I 
will  mention  one  curious  statistical  fact,  which  I  con 
sider  thoroughly  established,  namely,  that  no  real 
farmer  ever  attains  practically  beyond  a  seat  in  General 
Court,  however  theoretically  qualified  for  more  exalted 
station. 

It  is  probable  that  some  other  prospect  has  been 
opened  to  Mr.  Sawin,  and  that  he  has  not  made  this 
great  sacrifice  without  some  definite  understanding  in 
regard  to  a  seat  in  the  cabinet  or  a  foreign  mission. 
It  may  be  supposed  that  we  of  Jaalam  were  not  un 
touched  by  a  feeling  of  villatic  pride  in  beholding  our 
townsman  occupying  so  large  a  space  in  the  public  eye. 
And  to  me,  deeply  revolving  the  qualifications  necessary 
to  a1  candidate  in  these  frugal  times,  those  of  Mr.  S. 
seemed  peculiarly  adapted  to  a  successful  campaign. 
The  loss  of  a  leg,  an  arm,  an  eye,  and  four  fingers, 


138  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

reduced  him  so  nearly  to  the  condition  of  a  vox  et  pra 
ter  ea  nihil,  that  I  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  loss 
of  his  head  by  which  his  chance  could  have  been  bet 
tered.  Bat  since  he  has  chosen  to  balk  our  suffrages, 
we  must  content  ourselves  with  what  we  can  get,  re 
membering  lactucas  non  esse  dandas,  dum  cardui  suffi- 
cmnt.—R.  W.  J 

I  SPOSE  you  recollect  thet  I  explained  my  gennle  views 
In  the  last  billet  thet  I  writ,  'way  down  from  Veery 

Cruze, 

Jest  arter  I  M  a  kind  o'  ben  spontanously  sot  up 
To  run  unanimously  fer  the  Presidential  cup  ; 
0'  course  it  worn't  no  wish  o'  mine,  't  wuz  ferflely  dis- 

tressin,' 

But  poppiler  enthusiasm  gut  so  almighty  pressin' 
Thet,  though  like  sixty  all  along  I  fumed  an'  fussed  an' 

sorrered. 
There  did  n't  seem  no  ways  to  stop  their  briugin'  on  me 

f orrerd : 
Fact  is,  they  udged  the  matter  so,  I  could  n't  help  ad- 

mittin' 
The  Father  o'   his   Country's   shoes  no  feet  but  mine 

'ould  fit  in, 

Besides  the  savin'  o'  the  soles  fer  ages  to  succeed, 
Seem'  thet  with  one  wannut  foot,  a  pair  'd  be  more  'n  I 

need  ; 
An',  tell  ye  wut,  them  shoes  '11  want  a  thund'rin'  sight 

o'  patchin', 

Ef  this  ere  fashion  is  to  last  we  've  gut  into  o'  hatchin' 
A  pair  o'  second  Washintons  fer  every  new  election, — 
Though,  fur  ez  number  one  's  consarned,  I  don't  make 

no  objection. 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  139 

I  wuz  agoin'  on  to  say  thet  wen  at  fust  I  saw 

The  masses  would  stick  to  't  I  wuz  the  Country's  father- 

'n-law, 
(They  would  ha'  hed  it  Father,  but  I  told  'em  't  would 

n't  du, 

Coz  thet  wuz  sutthin'  of  a  sort  they  could  n't  split  in  tu, 
An'  Washinton  hed   hed  the  thing  laid   fairly  to  his 

door, 
Nor  dars  n't  say  't  worn't  his'n,  much  ez  sixty  year 

afore,) 
But 't  ain't  no  matter  ez  to  thet ;   wen  I  wuz  nomer- 

nated, 

'T  worn't  natur  but  wut  I  should  feel  consid'able  elated, 
An'  wile  the  hooraw  o'  the  thing  wuz  kind  o'  noo  an' 

fresh, 
I  thought  our  ticket  would  ha*  caird  the  country  with  a 

resh. 


Sence  I  've  come  hum,  though,  an'  looked  round,  I  think 
I  seem  to  find 

Strong  argimunts  ez  thick  ez  fleas  to  make  me  change 
my  mind ; 

It's  clear  to  any  one  whose  brain  ain't  fur  gone  in  a 
phthisis, 

Thet  hail  Columby's  happy  land  is  goin'  thru  a  crisis, 

An'  't  would  n't  noways  du  to  hev  the  people's  mind 
distracted 

By  bein'  all  to  once  by  sev'ral  pop'lar  names  attackted  ; 

'T  would  save  holl  haycartloads  o'  fuss  an'  three  four 
months  o'  jaw, 

Ef  some  illnstrous  paytriot  should  back  out  an'  with 
draw  j 


140  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

So,  ez  I  ain't  a  crooked  stick,  jest  like — like  ole  (I 

swow, 
I  dunno  ez  I  know  his  name) — I  '11  go  back  to  my 

plough. 
Now,  't  ain't  no  more  'n  is  proper  'n'  right  in  sech  a 

sitooation 
To  hint  the  course  you  think  '11  be  the  savin'  o*  the 

nation ; 
To  funk  right  out  o*  p'lit'cal  strife  ain't  thought  to  be 

the  thing, 
Without  you  deacon  off  the  toon  you  want  your  folks 

should  sing ; 
So  I  edvise  the  noomrous  friends  thet's  in  one  boat 

with  me 
To  jest  up  killock,  jam  right  down  their  helium  hard 

a  lee, 
Haul  the  sheets  taut,  an',  laying  out  upon  the  Suthun 

tack, 
Make  f er  the  safest  port  they  can,  wich,  I  think,  is  Ole 

Zack. 
Next  thing  you'll  want  to  know,  I  spose,  wut  argi- 

munts  I  seem 

To  see  that  makes  me  think  this  ere  '11  be  the  strong 
est  team  ; 
Fust  place,  I've  ben  consid'ble  round  in  barrooms  an* 

saloons 
Agethrin'  public  sentiment,  'mongst  Demmercrats  and 

Coons, 
An*  't  ain't  ve'y  offen  thet  I  meet  a  chap  but  wut  goes 

in 
Fer  Rough  an*  Ready,  fair   an*  square,  hnfs,  taller, 

horns,  an*  skin ; 
I  don't  deny  but  wut,  fer  one,  ez  fur  ez  I  could  see, 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  didn't  like  at  fust  the  Pheladelphy  nomernee  ; 
I  could  ha'  pinted  to  a  man  thet  wuz,  I  guess,  a  peg 
Higher  than  him, — a  soger,  tu,  an'  with  a  wooden  leg  ; 
But  every  day  with  more  an'  more  o'  Taylor  zeal  I  'm 

burnin', 

Seem'  wich  way  the  tide  thet  sets  to  office  is  aturnin' ; 
Wy,  into  Beller's  we  notched  the  votes  down  on  three 

sticks, — 

'T  wuz  Birdof redum  one,  Cass  aught,  an'  Taylor  twenty- 
six, 
An',   bein'  the   on'y   canderdate  thet  wuz  upon  the 

ground, 
They  said  't  wuz  no  more  'n  right  thet  I  should  pay 

the  drinks  all  round  ; 
Ef  I'd  expected  sech  a  trick,  I  would  n't  ha'  cut  my 

foot 

By  goin'  an'  votin'  fer  myself  like  a  consumed  coot  : 
It  did  n't  make  no  diff'rence,  though  ;  I  wish  I  may  be 

oust, 
Ef  Bellers  wuz  n't  slim  enough  to  say  he  would  n't 

trust ! 

Another  pint  thet  influences  the  minds  o'  sober  jedges 
Is  thet  the  Gin'ral  hez  n't  gut  tied  hand  an'  foot  with 

pledges  ; 
He  hez  n't  told  ye  wut  he  is,  an'  so  there  ain't  no 

knowin' 

But  wut  he  may  turn  out  to  be  the  best  there  is  agoin'; 
This,  at  the  on'y  spot  thet  pinched,  the  shoe  directly 

eases, 

Coz  every  one  is  free  to  'xpect  percisely  wnt  he  pleases  : 
I  want  free-trade  ;  you  don't ;  the  Gin'ral  is  n't  bound 

to  neither ; — 


143  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  vote  my  way  ;  you,  yonrn  ;  an'  both  air  sooted  to  a 

T  there. 
Ole  Rough  an'  Ready,  tu,   's  a  Wig,  but  without  bein* 

ultry 
(He's  like  a  holsome  hayinday,  thet  's  warm,  but  is  n't 

sultry)  ; 
He  's  jest  wut  I  should  call  myself,  a  kin'  o'  scratch,  ez 

't  ware, 
Thet   ain't   exactly   all   a   wig  nor  wholly  your  own 

hair  ; 
I've  ben  a  Wig  three  weeks  myself,  jest  o'  this  mod'rate 

sort, 
An'  don't  find  them  an'  Demmercrats  so  different  ez  I 

thought ; 
They  both  act  pooty  much  alike,  an'  push  an'  scrouge 

an'  cus ; 

They  're  like  two  pickpockets  in  league  for  Uncle  Sam- 
well's  pus  ; 
Each  takes  a  side,  an'  then  they  squeeze  the  old  man  in 

between  'em, 
Turn  all  his  pockets  wrong  side  out  an'  quick  ez  light- 

nin'  clean  'em ; 

To  nary  one  on  em  I  'd  trust  a  secon'-handed  rail 
No  furder  off  'an  I  could  sling  a  bullock  by  the  tail. 
Webster  sot  matters  right  in  thet  air  Mashfiel'  speech 

o'  his'n  ; — 
"  Taylor,"  sez  he,  "  ain't  nary  ways  the  one  thet  I'd  a 

chizzen, 

Nor  he  ain't  fittin'  f er  the  place,  an'  like  ez  not  he  ain't 
No  more  'n  a  tough  ole  bullethead,  an'  no  gret  of  a 

saint ; 
But  then,"  sez  he,  "  obsarve  my  pint,  he'g  jest  ez  good 

to  vote  f  er 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Ez  though  the  greasin'  on  him  worn't  a  thing  to  hire 

Choate  fer  ; 

Ain't  it  ez  easy  done  to  drop  a  ballot  in  a  box 
Fer  one  ez  't  is  fer  t'other,  fer  the  bulldog  ez  the  fox  ?  " 
It  takes  a  mind  like  Dannel's,  fact,  ez  big  ez  all  ou* 

doors, 

To  find  out  thet  it  looks  like  rain  arter  it  fairly  pours  ; 
I  'gree   with  him,    it  ain't  so  dreffle'  troublesome  to 

vote 
Fer  Taylor  arter  all, — it  's  jest  to  go  an'  change  your 

coat ; 
Wen  he  's  once  greased,  you'll  swaller  him  an'  never 

know  on  't,  source, 
Unless  he  scratches,  goin'  down,  with  them  air  G-in'raPs 

spurs. 

I've  ben  a  votin'  Demmercrat,  ez  reg'lar  ez  a  clock, 
But  don't  find  goin'  Taylor  gives  my  narves  no  gret  'f  a 

shock  ; 
Truth  is,  the  cutest  leadin'  Wigs,  ever  sence  fust  they 

found 
Wich  side  the  bread  gut  buttered  on,  hev  kep  a  edgin' 

round  ; 
They  kin'  o'  slipt  the  planks  frum  out  th'  ole  platform 

one  by  one 
An'  made  it  gradooally  noo,  'fore  folks  know'd  wut  wuz 

done, 
Till,  fur  'z  I  know,  there  ain't  an  inch  thet  I  could  lay 

my  han'  on, 

But  I,  or  any  Demmercrat,  feels  comf'table  to  stan*  on, 
An'  ole  Wig  doctrines  act'lly  look,  their  occ'pants  bein' 

gone, 
Lonesome  ez  staddles  on  a    mash  Tfithout  no  hayricks 

on. 


144  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  spose  it 's  time  now  I  shall  give  my  thoughts  upon  the 

plan, 
Thet  chipped  the  shell  at   Buffalo,  o'  settin'  up  ole 

Van. 

I  used  to  vote  fer  Martin,  but,  I  swan,  I  'm  clean  dis 
gusted, — 

He  ain't  the  man  thet  I  can  say  is  fittin'  to  be  trusted  ; 
He  ain't  half  autislav'ry  'nough,  nor  I  ain't  sure,  ez  some 

be, 

He  'd  go  in  fer  abolishin'  the  Deestrick  o'  Columby  ; 
An',  now   I   come   to   recollect,  it  kin'  o'  makes   me 

sick  'z 

A  horse,  to  think  o'  wut  he  wuz  in  eighteen  thirty-six. 
An'  then,  another  thing  ;— 1  guess,  though  mebby  I  am 

wrong, 
This   Buff'lo    plaster    ain't    agoin'   to    dror  almighty 

strong  ; 
Some  folks,  I  know,  hev  gut  th'  idee  thet  No'thun  dough 

'11  rise, 
Though,  'fore  I  see  it  riz  an'  baked,  I  would  n't  trust 

my  eyes ; 
'T  will  take  more  emptins,  a  long  chalk,  than  this  noo 

party  's  gut, 
To  give  sech  heavy  cakes  ez  them  a  start,  I  tell  ye 

wut. 
But  even  ef  they  caird  the  day,  there  would  n't  be  no 

endurin' 
To  stand  upon  a  platform  with  sech  critters  ez  Van 

Buren ; — 
An'  his  son  John,  tu,  I  can't  think  how  thet  air  chap 

should  dare 
To  speak  ez  he  doos ;  wy,  they  say  he  used  to  cuss  an* 

swear  ! 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  14-5 

I  spose  he  never  read  the  hymn  thet  tells  how  down  the 

stairs 
A  feller  with  long  legs  wnz  throwed  thet  would  n't  say 

his  prayers. 

This  brings  me  to  another  pint  :  the  leaders  o'  the  party 
Ain't  jest  sech  men  ez  I  can  act  along  with  free  an 

hearty  ; 
They  ain't  not  quite  respectable,  an'  wen  a  feller's  mor- 

rils 
Don't  toe  the  straightest  kin'  o'  mark,  wy,  him  an'  me 

jest  quarrils. 
I  went  to  a  free  soil  meetin'  once,  an'  wut  d'  ye  think 

I  see  ? 

A  feller  wuz  aspoutin'  there  thet  act'lly  come  to  me, 
About  two  year  ago  last  spring,  ez  nigh  ez  I  can  jedge, 
An'  axed  me  ef  I  didn't  want  to  sign  the  Ternprunce 

pledge  ! 
He  's  one  o'  them  thet  goes  about  an'  sez  you  hed  n't 

ough'  to 
Drink   nothin',  mornin',  noon,  or  night,  stronger  'an 

Tauuton  water. 
There  's  one   rule  I  've  ben  guided  by,  in  settlin'  how 

to  vote,  oilers, — 

I  take  the  side  thet  is  n't  took  by  them  consarned  tee 
totallers. 

Ez  fer  the  niggers,  I  've  ben  South,  an'  thet  hez  changed 

my  mind  ; 
A  lazier,   more  ungrateful  set  you   could  n't  nowers 

find. 
You  know  I  mentioned  in  my  last  thet  I  should  buy  a. 

nigger, 
10 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

Ef  I  could  make  a  purchase  at  a  pooty  mod'rat*  fig- 

ger; 
So,  ez  there  's  nothin'  in  the  world  I  'm  fonder  of  'an 

gunuin', 

I  closed  a  bargin  finally  to  take  a  feller  runnin'. 
I  shou'dered   queen's-arm  an'  stumped  out,  an'  wen  I 

come  t'  th'  swamp, 

'T  worn't  very  long  afore  I  gut  upon  the  nest  o'  Pomp  ; 
I  come  acrost  a  kin'  o '  hut,  an',  playin'  round  the  door, 
Some  little  woolly-headed  cubs,  ez  many  'z  six  or  more. 
At  fust  I  thought  o'  firing  but  think  twice  is  safest 

oilers  ; 
There  ain't,  thinks  I,  not  one  on  'em  but  's  wuth  his 

twenty  dollars, 

Or  would  be,  ef  I  bed  'em  back  into  a  Christian  land, — 
How  temptin'  all  on  'em  would  look  upon  an  auction- 
stand  ! 
(Not  but  wut  /  hate  Slavery  in  th'  abstract,   stem  to 

starn, — 

I  leave  it  ware  our  fathers  did,  a  privit  State  consarn.) 
Soon  'z  they  see  me,  they  yelled  an'  run,  but  Pomp  wuz 

out  ahoein' 
A  leetle  patch  o'  corn  he  hed,  or  else  there  ain  't  no 

knowin' 
He  would  n't  ha'  took  a  pop  at  me  ;  but  I  hed  gut  the 

start, 
An'  wen  he  looked,  I  vow  he  groaned  ez  though  he  'd 

broke  his  heart  ; 

He  done  it  like  a  wite  man,  tu,  ez  nat'ral  ez  a  pictur, 
The  imp'dunt,  pis'nous  hypocrite  !  wus  'an  a  boy  con- 

strictur. 
"  You  can't  gum  me,  I  tell  ye  now,  an'  so  you  need  n't 

try, 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

I  'xpect  my  eye-teeth  every  mail  so  jest  shet  up,"  sez  I. 

"  Don't  go  to  actin'  ugly  now,  or  else  I  '11  jest  let  strip, 

You  'd  best  draw  kindly,  seein'  'z  how  I  've  gnt  ye  on 
the  hip  ; 

Besides,  you  darned  ole  fool,  it  ain't  no  gret  of  a  dis 
aster 

To  be  benev'lently  druv  back  to  a  contented  master, 

Ware  you  hed  Christian  priv'ledges  you  don't  seem 
qnite  aware  of, 

Or  you  'd  ha'  never  run  away  from  bein'  well  took  care 
of; 

Ez  fer  kin'  treatment,  wy,  he  wuz  so  fond  on  ye,  he  said 

He  'd  give  a  fifty  spot  right  out,  to  git  ye, 'live  or  dead  ; 

Wite  folks  ain't  sot  by  half  ez  much ;  'member  I  run 


Wen  I  wuz  bound  to  Cap'n  Jakes,  to  Mattysqumscot  bay; 
Don'  know  him,  likely  ?   Spose  not ;  wal,  the  mean  ole 

codger  went 
An'  offered — wut  reward,  think?    Wal,  it  worn  't  no  lest 

'n  a  cent."    • 


Wal,  I  jest  gut  'em  into  line,  an  druv  'em  on  afore  me, 
The  pis'nous  brutes,  I  'd  no  idee  o'  the  ill-will  they  bore 

me  ; 
We  walked  till  som'ers  about  noon,  an'  then  it  grew  so 

hot 

I  thought  it  best  to  camp  awile,  so  I  chose  out  a  spot 
Jest  under  a  magnoly  tree,  an'  there  right  down  I  sot ; 
Then  I  unstrapped  my  wooden  leg,  coz  it  begun  to 

chafe, 

An*  laid  it  down  jest  by  my  side,  supposin'  all  wuz  safe  ; 
1  made  my  darkies  all  set  down  around  me  in  a  ring, 


148  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

An'  sot  an*  kin*  o*  ciphered  up  how  much  the  lot  would 

bring  ; 
But,  wile  I  drinked  the  peaceful  cup  of  a  pure  heart 

an'  mind, 
(Mixed   with   some   wiskey,  now  an'  then,)  Pomp  he 

snaked  up  behind, 

An',  creepin,  grad'lly  close  tu,  ez  quiet  ez  a  mink, 
Jest  grabbed  my  leg,  and  then  pulled  foot,  quicker  'an 

you  could  wink, 
An',  come  to  look,  they  each  on  'em  hed  gut  behin'  a 

tree, 
An'  Pomp  poked  out  the  leg  a  piece,  jest  so  ez  I  could 

see, 

An'  yelled  to  me  to  throw  away  my  pistils  an'  my  gun, 
Or  else  thet  they  'd  cair  off  the  leg  an'  fairly  cut  the  run. 
I  vow  I  didn  't  b'lieve  there  wuz  a  decent  alligatur 
Thet  hed  a  heart  so  destitoot  o'  common  human  natur  ; 
However,  ez  there  worn't  no  help,  I  finally  give  in 
An,  heft  my  arms  away  to  git  my  leg  safe  back  agin. 
Pomp  gethered  all  the  weapins  up,  an'  then  he  come 

an'  grinned, 
He  showed  his  ivory  some,  I  guess,  an'  sez,    "  You  're 

fairly  pinned ; 

Jest  buckle  on  your  leg  agiu,  an'  git  right  up  an'  come, 
'T  wun  't  du  fer  fammerly  men  like  me  to  be  so  long 

from  hum." 
At  fust  I  put  my  foot  right  down  an'  swore  I  would  n't 

budge. 
"Jest  ez  you  choose,"  sez  he,  quite  cool,  "  either  be 

shot  or  trudge." 
So  this  black-hearted  monster  took  an'  act'lly  druv  me, 

back 
Along  the  very  feet  marks  o'  my  happy  mornin'  track 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  149 

An'  kep'  me  prisoner  'bout  six  months,  an*  worked  me, 

tu,  like  sin, 

Till  I  hed  gut  his  corn  an'  his  Carliny  taters  in  ; 
He  made  me  larn  him  readin',  tu,  (although  the  crittur 

saw 

How  much  it  hut  my  morril  sense  to  act  agin  the  law,) 
So  'st  he  could  read  a  Bible  he  'd  gut  ;  an'  axed  ef  I 

could  pint 
The  North  Star  out  ;  "but  there  I  put  his  nose  some 

out  o'  jint, 

Fer  I  weeled  roun'  about  sou'west,  an',  lookin'  up  a  bit, 
Picked  out  a  middlin'  shiny  one  an'  tole  him  thet  wuz  it. 
Fin'lly,  he  took  me  to  the  door,  an',  givin'  me  a  kick, 
Sez  — "  Ef  you  know  wut  's  best  for  ye,  be  off,  now, 

double-quick ; 
The  winter-time  's  a  comin'  on,  an',  though  I  gut  ye 

cheap, 
You  're   so  darned  lazy,  I  don't  think  you  're  hardly 

wuth  your  keep  ; 
Besides,  the  childrin  's  growin'  up,  an*  you  ain't  jest 

the  model 
I  'd  like  to  hev  'em  immertate,  an*  so  you  'd  better 

toddle!" 

Now  is  there  any  thin'  on  airth  '11  ever  prove  to  me 
Thet  renegader  slaves  like  him  air  fit  fer  bein'  free  ? 
D'  you  think   they  '11  suck  me  in  to  jine  the  Bnff'lo 

chaps,  an'  them 

Bank  infidels  thet  go  agin  the  Scriptur'l  cus  o'  Shem  ? 
Not  by  a  jugf  nil !  sooner  'n  thet,  I  'd  go  thru  fire  an* 

water  ; 
Wen  I  hev  once  made  up  my  mind,  a  meet'nhus  ain't 

sotter ; 


150  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

No,  not  though  all  the  crows  thet  flies  to  pick  my  bone* 

wuz  cawin' — 

I  guess  we  're  in  a  Christian  land, — 
Yourn, 

BIEDOFREDUM  SAWIN. 

[Here,  patient  reader,  we  take  leave  of  each  other,  I 
trust  with  some  mutual  satisfaction.  I  say  patient,  for  I 
'  love  not  that  kind  which  skims  dippingly  over  the  sur 
face  of  the  page,  as  swallows  over  a  pool  before  rain. 
By  such  no  pearls  shall  be  gathered.  But  if  no  pearls 
there  be  (as,  indeed  the  world  is  not  without  example  of 
books  wherefrom  the  longest- winded  diver  shall  bring 
up  no  more  than  his  proper  handful  of  mud),  yet  let  us 
hope  that  an  oyster  or  two  may  reward  adequate  perse 
verance.  If  neither  pearls  nor  oysters,  yet  is  patience 
itself  a  gem  worth  diving  deeply  for. 

It  may  seem  to  some  that  too  much  space  has  been 
usurped  by  my  own  private  lucubrations,  and  some  may 
be  fain  to  bring  against  me  that  old  jest  of  him  who 
preached  all  his  hearers  out  of  the  meeting-house  save 
only  the  sexton,  who,  remaining  for  yet  a  little  space, 
from  a  sense  of  official  duty,  at  last  gave  out  also,  and, 
presenting  the  keys,  humbly  requested  our  preacher  to 
lock  the  doors,  when  he  should  have  wholly  relieved 
himself  of  his  testimony.  I  confess  to  a  satisfaction  in 
the  self  act  of  preaching,  nor  do  I  esteem  a  discourse  to 
be  wholly  thrown  away  even  upon  a  sleeping  or  unintel 
ligent  auditory.  I  cannot  easily  believe  that  the  Gos 
pel  of  Saint  John,  which  Jacques  Cartier  ordered  to  be 
read  in  the  Latin  tongue  to  the  Canadian  savages,  upon 
his  first  meeting  with  them,  fell  altogether  upon  stony 
ground.  For  the  earnestness  of  the  preacher  is  a  sermoa 


THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS.  151 

appreciable  by  dullest  intellects  and  most  alien  ears. 
In  this  wise  did  Episcopius  convert  many  to  his  opin 
ions,  who  yet  understood  not  the  language  in  which  he 
discoursed.  The  chief  thing  is,  that  the  messenger  be 
lieve  that  he  has  an  authentic  message  to  deliver.  For 
counterfeit  messengers  that  mode  of  treatment  which 
Father  John  de  Piano  Carpini  relates  to  have  prevailed 
among  the  Tartars  would  seem  effectual,  and,  perhaps, 
deserved  enough.  For  my  own  part,  I  may  lay  claim  to 
so  much  of  the  spirit  of  martyrdom  as  would  have  led 
me  to  go  into  banishment  with  those  clergymen  whom 
Alphonso  the  Sixth  of  Portugal  drave  out  of  his  king 
dom  for  refusing  to  shorten  their  pulpit  eloquence.  It 
is  possible,  that,  having  been  invited  into  my  brother 
Biglow's  desk,  I  may  have  been  too  little  scrupulous  in 
using  it  for  the  venting  of  my  own  peculiar  doctrines  to 
a  congregation  drawn  together  in  the  expectation  and 
with  the  desire  of  hearing  him. 

I  am  not  wholly  unconscious  of  a  peculiarity  of  mental 
organization  which  impels  me,  like  the  railroad-engine 
with  its  train  of  cars,  to  run  backward  for  a  short  distance 
in  order  to  obtain  a  fairer  start.  I  may  compare  myself 
to  one  fishing  from  the  rocks  when  the  sea  runs  high, 
who,  misinterpreting  the  suction  of  the  undertow  for  the 
biting  of  some  larger  fish,  jerks  suddenly,  and  finds  that 
he  has  caught  bottom,  hauling  in  upon  the  end  of  his  line 
a  trail  of  various  algce,  among  which,  nevertheless,  the 
naturalist  may  haply  find  somewhat  to  repay  the  dis 
appointment  of  the  angler.  Yet  have  I  conscientiously 
endeavored  to  adapt  myself  to  the  impatient  temper  of 
the  age,  daily  degenerating  more  and  more  from  the 
high  standard  of  our  pristine  New  England.  To  the 
catalogue  of  lost  arts  I  would  mournfully  add  also  that 


152  THE  BIGLOW  PAPERS. 

of  listening  to  two-hour  sermons.  Surely  we  have  been 
abridged  into  a  race  of  pigmies.  For,  truly,  in  those 
of  the  old  discourses  yet  subsisting  to  us  in  print,  the 
endless  spinal  column  of  divisions  and  subdivisions  can 
be  likened  to  nothing  so  exactly  as  to  the  vertebrae  of  the 
saurians,  whence  the  theorist  may  conjecture  a  race  of 
Anakim  proportionate  to  the  withstanding  of  these  other 
monsters.  I  say  Anakim  rather  than  Nephelim,  because 
there  seem  reasons  for  supposing  that  the  race  of  those 
whose  heads  (though  no  giants)  are  constantly  enveloped 
in  clouds  (which  that  name  imports)  will  never  become 
extinct.  The  attempt  to  vanquish  the  innumerable 
heads  of  one  of  those  aforementioned  discourses  may 
supply  us  with  a  plausible  interpretation  of  the  second 
labor  of  Hercules,  and  his  successful  experiment  with 
fire  affords  us  a  useful  precedent. 

But  while  I  lament  the  degeneracy  of  the  age  in  this 
regard,  I  cannot  refuse  to  succumb  to  its  influence. 
Looking  out  through  my  study  window,  I  see  Mr.  Big- 
low  at  a  distance  busy  in  gathering  his  Baldwins,  of 
which,  to  judge  by  the  number  of  barrels  lying  about 
under  the  trees,  his  crop  is  more  abundant  than  my  own, 
— by  which  sight  I  am  admonished  to  turn  to  those 
orchards  of  the  mind  wherein  my  labors  may  be  more 
prospered,  and  apply  myself  diligently  to  the  prepara 
tion  of  my  next  Sabbath's  discourse. — H.  W.] 


A  FABLE  FOR  CRITICS. 


READER  !  walk  up  at  once  (it  will  soon  be  too  late)  and  buy  at 
a  perfectly  ruinous  rate 


FABLE  FOR  CRITICS; 

OR,    BETTER, 

(I  like,  as  a  thing  that  the  reader's  first  fancy  may  strike,  an 

old  fashioned  title-page, 
such  as  presents  a  tabular  view  of  the  -volume's  contents.') 


A  GLANCE 

AT  A  FEW  OF  OUR   LITERARY  PROGENIES 
(Mrs.  Malaprop's  word.) 

FROM 

THE  TUB  OF  DIOGENES  ; 
A  VOCAL  AND  MUSICAL  MEDLEY. 

THAT  IS, 

A  SERIES  OF  JOKES 

H  TKHon&erful 


who  accompanies  himself  with  a  rub-a-dub-dub,  full  of  spirit  and 
grace,  on  the  top  of  the  tub. 


•BT    POBTH  IF 

October,  the   2\st  day,   in   the  year  '48. 
G.  P.  PUTNAM,  BROADWAY. 


IT  being  the  commonest  mode  of  procedure,  I  premise 
a  few  candid  remarks 

To  THE  EEADER  : 

This  trifle,  begun  to  please  only  myself  and  my  own 
private  fancy,  was  laid  on  the  shelf.  But  some  friends, 
who  had  seen  it,  induced  me,  by  dint  of  saying  they 
liked  it,  to  put  it  in  print.  That  is,  having  come  to 
that  very  conclusion,  I  consulted  them  when  it  could 
make  no  confusion.  For,  (though  in  the  gentlest  of 
ways,)  they  had  hinted  it  was  scarce  worth  the  while,  I 
should  doubtless  have  printed  it. 

I  began  it,  intending  a  Fable,  a  frail,  slender  thing, 
rhyme-ywinged,  with  a  sting  in  its  tail.  But,  by  add- 
ings  and  alterings  not  previously  planned, — digressions 
chance-hatched,  like  birds'  eggs  in  the  sand, — and 
dawdlings  to  suit  every  whimsy's  demand,  (always  free 
ing  the  bird  which  I  held  in  my  hand,  for  the  two 
perched,  perhaps  out  of  reach,  in  the  tree,) — it  grew 
by  degrees  to  the  size  which  you  see.  I  was  like  the 
old  woman  that  carried  the  calf,  and  my  neighbors, 
like  hers,  no  doubt,  wonder  and  laugh,  and  when,  my 
strained  arms  with  their  grown  burthen  full,  I  call  it 
my  Fable,  they  call  it  a  bull. 

Having  scrawled  at  full  gallop  (as .  far  as  that  goes) 
in  a  style  that  is  neither  good  verse  nor  bad  prose,  and 
being  a  person  whom  nobody  knows,  some  people  will 
say  I  am  rather  more  free  with  my  readers  than  it  is 

157 


158  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

becoming  to  be,  that  I  seem  to  expect  them  to  wait  on 
my  leisure  in  following  wherever  I  wander  at  pleasure, 
that,  in  short,  I  take  more  than  a  young  author's  law 
ful  ease,  and  laugh  in  a  queer  way  so  like  Mephis- 
topheles,  that  the  public  will  doubt,  as  they  grope 
through  my  rhythm,  if  in  truth  I  am  making  fun  at 
them  or  with  them. 

So  the  excellent  Public  is  hereby  assured  that  the 
sale  of  my  book  is  already  secured.  For  there  is  not  a 
poet  throughout  the  whole  land,  but  will  purchase  a 
copy  or  two  out  of  hand,  in  the  fond  expectation  of 
being  amused  in  it,  by  seeing  his  betters  cut-up  and 
abused  in  it.  Now,  I  find,  by  a  pretty  exact  calcula 
tion,  there  are  something  like  ten  thousand  bards  in 
the  nation,  of  that  special  variety  whom  the  Review 
and  Magazine  critics  call  lofty  and  true,  and  about 
thirty  thousand  (this  tribe  is  increasing)  of  the  kinds 
who  are  termed  full  of  promise  and  pleasing.  The 
Public  will  see  by  a  glance  at  this  schedule,  that  they 
cannot  expect  me  to  be  over-sedulons  about  courting 
them,  since  it  seems  I  have  got  enough  fuel  made  sure 
of  for  boiling  my  pot. 

As  for  such  of  our  poets  as  find  not  their  names  men 
tioned  once  in  my  pages,  with  praises  or  blames,  let 
them  SEND  IN  THEIR  CARDS,  without  further  DELAY, 
to  my  friend  G.  P.  PUTNAM,  Esquire,  in  Broadway, 
where  a  LIST  will  be  kept  with  the  strictest  regard  to 
the  day  and  the  hour  of  receiving  the  card.  Then, 
taking  them  up  as  I  chance  to  have  time,  (that  is,  if 
their  names  can  be  twisted  in  rhyme.)  I  will  honestly 
give  each  his  PROPER  POSITION,  at  the  rate  of  ONE 
AUTHOR  to  each  NEW  EDITION.  Thus  a  PEEMIUM  is 
offered  sufficiently  HIGH  (as  the  magazines  say  when 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  159 

they  tell  their  best  lie)  to  induce  bards  to  CLUB  theit 
resources  and  buy  the  balance  of  every  edition,  until 
they  have  all  of  them  fairly  been  run  through  the  mill. 
One  word  to  such  readers  (judicious  and  wise)  as  read 
books  with  something  behind  the  mere  eyes,  of  whom 
in  the  country,  perhaps,  there  are  two,  including  my 
self,  gentle  reader,  and  you.  All  the  characters  sketched 
in  this  slight  jeu  d'esprit,  though,  it  may  be,  they  seem, 
here  and  there,  rather  free,  and  drawn  from  a  Mephis- 
tophelian  stand-point,  are  meant  to  be  faithful,  and  that 
is  the  grand  point,  and  none  but  an  owl  would  feel  sore 
at  a  rub  from  a  jester  who  tells  you,  without  any  sub 
terfuge,  that  he  sits  in  Diogenes'  tub. 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 


PHCEBUS,  sitting  one  day  in  a  laurel-tree's  shade, 
Was  reminded  of  Daphne,  of  whom  it  was  made, 
For  the  god  being  one  day  too  warm  in  his  wooing, 
She  took  to  the  tree  to  escape  his  pursuing  ; 
Be  the    cause   what  it   might,    from  his    offers  she 

shrunk, 

And,  Ginevra-like,  shut  herself  up  in  a  trunk  ; 
And,  though  't  was  a  step  into  which  he  had  driven 

her, 

He  somehow  or  other  had  never  forgiven  her  ; 
Her  memory  he  nursed  as  a  kind  of  a  tonic, 
Something  bitter  to  chew  when  he  'd  play  the  Byronic, 
And   I   can't   count   the    obstinate    nymphs   that  he 

brought  over, 
By  a  strange  kind  of  smile  he  put  on  when  he  thought 

of  her. 

"  My  case  is  like  Dido's,"  he  sometimes  remark'd, 
"  When  I  last  saw  my  love,  she  was  fairly  embark'd  ; 
Let  hunters  from  me  take  this  saw  when  they  need  it, 
— You  're  not  always  sure  of  your  game  when  you've 

tree'd  it. 
Just  conceive  such  a  change   taking  place  in  one's 

mistress  ! 
ii  161 


162  -A-  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

What  romance  would  be  left  ? — who  can  flatter  or 
kiss  trees  ? 

And  for  mercy's  sake,  how  could  one  keep  up  a  dia 
logue 

With  a  dull  wooden  thing  that  will  live  and  will  die  a 
log,— 

Not  to  say  that  the  thought  would  forever  intrude 

That  you  've  less  chance  to  win  her  the  more  she  is 
wood  ? 

Ah  !  it  went  to  my  heart,  and  the  memory  still  grieves, 

To  see  those  loved  graces  all  taking  their  leaves  ; 

Those  charms  beyond  speech,  so  enchanting  but 
now, 

As  they  left  me  forever,  each  making  its  bough  ! 

If  her  tongue  had  a  tang  sometimes  more  than  was 
right, 

Her  new  bark  is  worse  than  ten  times  her  old  bite." 


Now,  Daphne, — before  she  was  happily  treeified, — 
Over  all  other  flowers  the  lily  had  deified, 
And  when  she  expected  the  god  on  a  visit, 
('T  was  before  he  had  made  his  intentions  explicit,) 
Some  buds  she  arranged  with  a  vast  deal  of  care, 
To  look  as  if  artlessly  twined  in  her  hair, 
Where  they  seemed,  as  he  said,  when  he  paid  his  ad 
dresses, 
Like  the  day  breaking  through  the  long  night  of  her 

tresses  ; 

So,  whenever  he  wished  to  be  quite  irresistible, 
Like  a  man  with  eight  trumps  in  his  hand  at  a  whiat- 

table, 
(I  feared  me  at  first  that  the  rhyme  was  untwiitable, 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  163 

Though  I  might  have  lugged  in  an  allusion  to  Christa- 

bel,)- 

He  would  take  up  a  lily,  and  gloomily  look  in  it, 
As  1  shall  at  the ,  when  they  cut  up  my  book  in  it. 

Well,  here,  after  all  the  bad  rhyme  I  've  been  spinning, 

I  've  got  back  at  last  to  my  story's  beginning  : 

Sitting  there  as  I  say,  in  the  shade  of  his  mistress, 

As  dull  as  a  volume  of  old  Chester  mysteries, 

Or  as  those  puzzling  specimens,  which,  in  old  histories, 

We  read  of  his  verses — the  Oracles,  namely, — 

(I  wonder   the    Greeks    should  have   swallowed  them 

tamely, 

For  one  might  bet  safely  whatever  he  has  to  risk, 
They  were   laid   at  his    door   by  some  ancient  Miss 

Asterisk, 

And  so  dull  that  the  men  who  retailed  them  out  doors 
Got  the   ill   name   of    "augurs/'   because  they  were 

bores,) — 

First,  he  mused  what  the  animal  substance  or  herb  is 
Would  induce  a  moustache,  for  you  know  he  's  im- 

berbis  ; 

Then  he  shuddered    to  think  how  his  youthful  posi 
tion 

Was  assailed  by  the  age  of  his  son  the  physician  ; 
At  some  poems  he  glanced,   had  been   sent   to  him 

lately, 

And  the  metre  and  sentiment  puzzled  him  greatly ; 
"  Mehercle  !     I  'd  make  such  proceedings  felonious, — 
Have  they  all  of  them  slept  in  the  cave  of  Trophonius  ? 
Look  well  to  your  seat,  't  is  like  taking  an  airing 
On  a  corduroy  road,  and  that  out  of  repairing  ; 
It  leads  one,  't  is  true,  through  the  primitive  forest, 


164:  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Grand  natural  features — but,  then,  one  has  no  rest ; 
You  just  catch  a  glimpse  of  some  ravishing  distance, 
When  a  jolt  puts  the  whole  of  it  out  of  existence, — 
Why  not  use  their  ears,  if  they  happen  to  have  any  ?  " 
— Here  the  laurel-leaves  murmured  the  name  of  poor 
Daphne. 

"  0,  weep  with  me,  Daphne/'  he  sighed,  "  for  you 

know  it  's 

A  terrible  thing  to  be  pestered  with  poets  !  " 
But,  alas,  she  is  dumb,  and  the  proverb  holds  good, 
She  never  will  cry  till  she  's  out  of  the  wood  ! 
What  would  n't  I  give  if  I  never  had  known  of  her  ? 
'T  were  a  kind  of  relief  had  I  something  to  groan  over  ; 
If  I  had  but  some  letters  of  hers,  now,  to  toss  over, 
J  might  turn  for  the  nonce  a  Byronic  philosopher, 
And  bewitch  all  the  flats  by  bemoaning  the  loss  of  her. 
One  needs  something  tangible  though  to  begin  on — 
A  loom,  as  it  were,  for  the  fancy  to  spin  on  ; 
What  boots  all  your  grist  ?  it  can  never  be  ground 
Till  the  breeze   makes   the   arms  of  the  windmill  go 

round, 

(Or,  if  't  is  a  water-mill,  alter  the  metaphor, 
And  say  it  won't  stir,  save  the  wheel  be  well  wet  afore, 
Or  lug  in  some  stuff  about  water  "so  dreamily," — 
It  is  not  a  metaphor,  though,  't  is  a  simile  ;) 
A  lily,  perhaps,  would  set  my  mill  agoing, 
For  just  at  this  season,  I  think,  they  are  blowing, 
Here,  somebody,  fetch  one,  not  very  far  hence 
They  're  in  bloom  by  the  score,  't  is  but  climbing  a 

fence  ; 

There  's  a  poet  hard  by,  who  does  nothing  but  fill  his 
Whole  garden,  from  one  end  to  t'  other,  with  lilies  j 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  165 

A  very  good  plan,  were  it  not  for  satiety, 
One  longs  for  a  weed  here  and  there,  for  variety  ; 
Though  a  weed  is  no  more  than  a  flower  in  disguise, 
Which  is  seen  through  at  once,  if  love  gives  a  man 
eyes. 

Now  there  happened  to  be  among  Phcehus's  follow 
ers, 

A  gentleman,  one  of  the  omnivorous  swallowers 
Who  bolt  every  book  that  comes  out  of  the  press, 
Without  the  least  question  of  larger  or  less, 
Whose    stomachs   are    strong  at  the   expense  of  their 

head, — 

For  reading  new  books  is  like  eating  new  bread, 
One  can  bear  it  at  first,  but  by  gradual  steps  he 
Is  brought  to  death's  door  of  a  mental  dyspepsy. 
On  a  previous  stage  of  existence,  our  Hero 
Had  ridden  outside,  with  the  glass  below  zero  ; 
He  had  been,  't  is  a  fact  you  may  safely  rely  on, 
Of  a  very  old  stock  a  most  eminent  scion, — 
A  stock  all  fresh  quacks  their  fierce  boluses  ply  on, 
Who  stretch  the  new  boots  Earth  '&  unwilling  to  try 

on, 
Whom  humbugs  of  all  shapes  and  sorts  keep  their  eye 

on, 

Whose  hair  's  in  the  mortar  of  every  new  Zion, 
Who,  when  whistles  are  dear,  go  directly  and  buy  one, 
Who  think  slavery  a  crime  that  we  must  not  say  fie 

on, 

Who  hunt,  if  they  e'er  hunt  at  all,  with  the  lion, 
(Though  they  hunt  lions  also,  whenever  they  spy  one,) 
Who  contrive  to  make  every  good  fortune  a  wry  one, 
And  at  last  choose  the  hard  bed  of  honor  to  die  on, 


166  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Whose  pedigree  traced  to  earth's  earliest  years, 
Is  longer  than  any  thing  else  but  their  ears  ; — 
In  short,  he  was  sent  into  life  with  the  wrong  key, 
He  unlocked  the  door,  and  stept  forth  a  poor  donkey. 
Though  kicked  and  abused  by  his  bipedal  betters, 
Yet  he  filled  no  mean  place  in  the  kingdom  of  letters  ; 
Far  happier  than  many  a  literary  hack, 
He  bore  only  paper-mill  rags  on  his  back ; 
(For  it  makes  a  vast  difference  which  side  the  mill 
One  expends  on  the  paper  his  labor  and  skill ;) 
So,  when  his  soul  waited  a  new  transmigration, 
And  Destiny  balanced  'twixt  this  and  that  station, 
Not  having  much  time  to  expend  upon  bothers, 
Remembering  he  'd  had  some  connections  with  authors, 
And  considering  his  four  legs  had  grown  paralytic, — 
She  set  him  on  too,  and  he  came  forth  a  critic. 

Through  his  babyhood  no  kind  of  pleasure  he  took 
In  any  amusement  but  tearing  a  book  ; 
For  him  there  was  no  intermediate  stage, 
From  babyhood  up  to  strait-laced  middle  age  ; 
There  were  years  when  he    did  n't    wear    coat-tails 

behind, 

But  a  boy  he  could  never  be  rightly  defined  ; 
Like  the  Irish  Good  Folk,  though  in  length  scarce  a 

span, 

From  the  womb  he  came  gravely,  a  little  old  man  ; 
While  other  boys'  trousers  demanded  the  toil 
Of  the  motherly  fingers  on  all  kinds  of  soil, 
Red,  yellow,  brown,  black,  clayey,  gravelly,  loamy, 
He  sat  in  a  corner  and  read  Viri  Romse. 
He  never  was  known  to  unbend  or  to  revel  once 
In  base,  marbles,  hockey,  or  kick  up  the  devil  once  ; 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  167 

He  was  just  one  of  those  who  excite  the  benevolence 
Of  old   prigs   who   sound    the   soul's    depths   with  a 

ledger, 
And  are  on   the  look  out  for  some  young  men  to 

"  edger- 

-cate,"  as  they  call  it,  who  won't  be  too  costly, 
And  who  '11  afterward  take  to  the  ministry  mostly ; 
Who  always  wear  spectacles,  always  look  bilious, 
Always  keep  on  good  terms  with  each  materfamilias 
Throughout  the  whole  parish,  and  manage  to  rear 
Ten  boys  like  themselves,  on  four  hundred  a  year  ; 
Who,  fulfilling  in  turn  the  same  fearful  conditions, 
Either  preach  through  their  noses,  or  go  upon  missions. 

In  this  way  our  hero  got  safely  to  College, 
Where  he  bolted  alike  both  his  commons  and  knowl 
edge  ; 

A  reading-machine,  always  wound  up  and  going, 
He  mastered  whatever  was  not  worth  the  knowing, 
Appeared  in  a  gown,  and  a  vest  of  black  satin,     . 
To  spout  such  a  Gothic  oration  in  Latin, 
That  Tully  could  never  have  made  out  a  word  in  it, 
(Though  himself  was  the  model  the  author  preferred 

in  it,) 

And  grasping  the  parchment  which  gave  him  in  fee, 
All  the  mystic  and  so-forths  contained  in  A.  B., 
He  was  launched  (life  is  always  compared  to  a  sea,) 
With  just  enough  learning,  and  skill  for  the  using  it, 
To  prove  he'd  a  brain,  by  forever  confusing  it. 
So  worthy  Saint  Benedict,  piously  burning 
With  the  holiest  zeal  against  secular  learning, 
Nesciensque  scienter,  as  writers  express  it, 
Indoctusque  sapienter  d  Romd  recessit. 


168  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

'T  would  be  endless  to  tell  you  the  things  that  he 

knew, 

All  separate  facts,  undeniably  true, 
But  with  him  or  each  other  they  'd  nothing  to  do  ; 
No  power  of  combining,  arranging,  discerning, 
Digested  the  masses  he  learned  into  learning  ; 
There  was  one  thing  in  life  he  had  practical  knowledge 

for, 
(And,  this  you  will  think,  he  need  scarce  go  to  college 

for,) 

Not  a  deed  would  he  do,  not  a  word  would  he  utter, 
Till    he'd   weighed   its  relations   to  plain   bread   and 

butter. 

When  he  left  Alma  Mater,  he  practised  his  wits  ' 
In  compiling  the  journals'  historical  bits, — 
Of  shops  broken  open,  men  falling  in  fits, 
Great  fortunes  in  England  bequeathed  to  poor  printers, 
And  cold  spells,  the  c  l^est  for  many  past  winters, — 
Then,  rising  by  industry,  knack,  and  address, 
Got  notices  up  for  an  unbiassed  press, 
With  a  mind  so  well  poised,  it  seemed  equally  made  for 
Applause  or  abuse,  just  which  chanced  to  be  paid  for  ; 
From  this  point  his  progress  was  rapid  and  sure, 
To  the  post  of  a  regular  heavy  reviewer. 

And  here  I  must  say,  he  wrote  excellent  articles 
On  the  Hebraic  points,  or  the  force  of  Greek  particles, 
They  filled  up  the  space  nothing  else  was  prepared  for, 
And  nobody  read  that  which  nobody  cared  for  ; 
If  any  old  book  reached  a  fiftieth  edition, 
He  could  fill  forty  pages  with  safe  erudition  ; 
He  could  gauge  the  old  books  by  the  old  set  of  rules, 
And  his  very  old  nothings  pleased  very  old  fools  ; 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  169 

But  give  him  a  new  book,  fresh  out  of  the  heart, 
And  you  put  him  at  sea  without  compass  or  chart, — 
His  blunders  aspired  to  the  rank  of  an  art  ; 
For  his  lore  was  engraft,  something  foreign  that  grew 

in  him, 

Exhausting  the  sap  of  the  native  and  true  in  him, 
So  that  when  a  man  came  with  a  soul  that  was  new  in 

him, 

Carving  new  forms  of  truth  out  of  Nature's  old  granite, 
New  and  old  at  their  birth,  like  Le  Verrier's  planet, 
Which,   to   get  a  true    judgment,    themselves    must 

create 

In  the  soul  of  their  critic  the  measure  and  weight, 
Being  rather  themselves  a  fresh  standard  of  grace, 
To  compute  their  own  judge,  and  assign  him  his  place, 
Our  reviewer  would  crawl  all  about  it  and  round  it, 
And,  reporting  each  circumstance  just  as  he  found  it, 
Without  the  least  malice, — his  record  would  be 
Profoundly  aesthetic  as  that  of  a  flea, 
Which,  supping  on  Wordsworth,  should  print,  for  our 

sakes, 

Kecollections  of  nights  with  the  Bard  of  the  Lakes, 
Or,  borne  by  an  Arab  guide,  ventured  to  render  a 
General  view  of  the  ruins  at  Denderah. 

As  I  said,  he  was  never  precisely  unkind, 
The  defect  in  his  brain  was  mere  absence  of  mind ; 
If  he  boasted,  Jt  was  simply  that  he  was  self-made, 
A  position  which  I,  for  one,  never  gainsaid, 
My  respect  for  my  Maker  supposing  a  skill 
In  his  works  which  our  hero  would  answer  but  ill ; 
And  I  trust  that  the  mould  which  he  used  may  be 
cracked,  or  he, 


170  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Made  bold  by  success,  may  make  broad  his  phylactery, 
And  <set  up  a  kind  of  a  man-manufactory, 
An  event  which  I  shudder  to  think  about,  seeing 
That  Man  is  a  moral,  accountable  being. 

He  meant  well  enough,  but  was  still  in  the  way, 
As  a  dunce  always  is,  let  him  be  where  he  may  ; 
Indeed,  they  appear  to  come  into  existence 
To  impede  other  folks  with  their  awkward  assistance  ; 
If  you  set  up  a  dunce  on  the  very  North  pole, 
All  alone  with  himself,  I  believe,  on  my  soul, 
He  'd  manage  to  get  betwixt  somebody's  shins, 
And  pitch  him  down  bodily,  all  in  his  sins, 
To  the  grave  polar  bears  sitting  round  on  the  ice, 
All  shortening  their  grace,  to  be  in  for  a  slice  ; 
Or,  if  he  found  nobody  else  there  to  pother, 
Why,  one  of  his  legs  would  just  trip  up  the  other, 
For  there's  nothing  we  read  of  in  torture's  inventions, 
Like  a  well-meaning  dunce,  with  the  best  of  intentions. 

A  terrible  fellow  to  meet  in  society, 
Not  the  toast  that  he  buttered  was  ever  so  dry  at  tea ; 
There  he  'd  sit  at  the  table  and  stir  in  his  sugar, 
Crouching  close  for  a  spring,  all  the  while,   like  a 

cougar  ; 

Be  sure  of  your  facts,  of  your  measures  and  weights, 
Of  your  time — he  's  as  fond  as  an  Arab  of  dates  ; — 
You  '11  be  telling,  perhaps,  in  your  comical  way, 
Of  something  you've  seen  in  the  course  of  the  day  ; 
And,  just  as  you  're  tapering  out  the  conclusion, 
You  venture  an  ill-fated  classic  allusion, — 
The  girls  have  all  got  their  laughs  ready,  when,  whack  ! 
The  cougar  comes  down  on  your  thunderstruck  back ; 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  1ft 

You  had  left  out  a  comma, — your  Greek  'a  put  in  joint, 
And  pointed  at  cost  of  your  story's  whole  point. 
In  the  course  of  the  evening,  you  venture  on  certain 
Soft  speeches  to  Anne,  in  the  shade  of  the  curtain  ; 
You  tell  her  your  heart  can  be  likened  to  one  flower, 
"  And  that,  oh  most  charming  of  women,  's  the  sun 
flower, 

Which  turns  " — here  a  clear  nasal  voice,  to  your  terror, 
From  outside  the  curtain,  says,   "  that  's  all  an  error." 
As  for  him,  he's — no  matter,  he  never  grew  tender, 
Sitting  after  a  ball,  with  his  feet  on  the  fender, 
Shaping  somebody's  sweet  features  out  of  cigar  smoke, 
(Though  he  'd  willingly  grant  yon  that  such  doings  are 

smoke  ;) 

All  women  he  damns  with  mutdbile  semper, 
And  if  ever  he  felt  something  like  love's  distemper, 
'T  was  toward  a  young  lady  who  spoke  ancient  Mexican, 
And  assisted  her  father  in  making  a  lexicon  ; 
Though  I  recollect  hearing  him  get  quite  ferocious 
About  one  Mary  Clausum,  the  mistress  of  Grotius, 
Or  something  of  that  sort, — but,  no  more  to  bore  ye. 
With  character-painting,  I  '11  turn  to  my  story. 

Now,  Apollo,  who  finds  it  convenient'sometimes 
To  get  his  court  clear  of  the  makers  of  rhymes, 
The  genus,  I  think  it  is  called,  irritobile, 
Every  one  of  whom  thinks  himself  treated  most  ihab- 

bily, 

And  nurses  a — what  is  it  ? — immedicobiU, 
Which  keeps  him  at  boiling-point,  hot  for  a  quarrtl, 
As  bitter  as  wormwood,  and  sourer  than  sorrel, 
If  any  poor  devil  but  looks  at  a  laurel ; — 
Apollo,  I  say,  being  sick  of  their  rioting, 


172  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

(Though  he  sometimes  acknowledged  their  verse  had  a 

quieting 

Effect  after  dinner,  and  seemed  to  suggest  a 
Eetreat  to  the  shrine  of  a  tranquil  siesta,) 
Kept  our  Hero  at  hand,  who,  by  means  of  a  bray, 
"Which  he  gave  to  the  life,  drove  the  rabble  away ; 
And  if  that  would  n't  do,  he  was  sure  to  succeed, 
If  he  took  his  review  out  and  offered  to  read ; 
Or,  failing  in  plans  of  this  milder  description, 
He  would  ask  for  their  aid  to  get  up  a  subscription, 
Considering  that  authorship  was  n't  a  rich  craft, 
To  print  the  "  American  drama  of  Witchcraft." 
"  Stay,  I  '11  read  you  a  scene," — but  he  hardly  began, 
Ere  Apollo  shrieked  "  Help  !  "  and  the  authors  all  ran  : 
And  once,  when  these  purgatives  acted  with  less  spirit, 
And  the  desperate  case  asked  a  remedy  desperate, 
He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  foolscap  epistle, 
As  calmly  as  if  't  were  a  nine-barrelled  pistol, 
And  threatened  them  all  with  the  judgment  to  come, 
Of  "  A  wandering  Star's  first  impressions  of  Rome." 
"  Stop  !    stop  ! "  with  their  hands  o'er  their  ears 

screamed  the  Muses, 

"  He  may  go  off  and  murder  himself,  if  he  chooses, 
'T  was  a  means  self-defence  only  sanctioned  his  trying, 
'T  is  mere  massacre  now  that  the  enemy  's  flying  ; 
If  he  's  forced  to  't  again,  and  we  happen  to  be  there, 
Give  us  each  a  large  handkerchief  soaked  in  strong 

ether." 

I  called  this  a  "  Fable  for  Critics  ;"  you  think  it 's 
More  like  a  display  of  my  rhythmical  trinkets ; 
My  plot,  like  an  icicle,  's  slender  and  slippery, 
Every  moment  more  slender,  and  likely  to  slip  awry, 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

And  the  reader  unwilling  in  loco  desipere, 

Is  free  to  jump  over  as  much  of  my  frippery 

As  he  fancies,  and,  if  he  's  a  provident  skipper,  he 

May  have  an  Odyssean  sway  of  the  gales, 

And  get  safe  into  port,  ere  his  patience  all  fails  ; 

Moreover,  although  't  is  a  slender  return 

For  your  toil  arid  expense,  yet  my  paper  will  burn, 

And,    if  you   have   manfully  struggled  thus  far  with 

me, 
You  may  e'en  twist  me  up,  and  just  light  your  cigar 

with  me  : 

If  too  angry  for  that,  you  can  tear  me  in  pieces, 
And  my  membra  disjecta  consign  to  the  breezes, 
A  fate  like  great  Katzau's,  whom  one  of  those  bores, 
Who  beflead  with  bad  verses  poor  Louis  Quatorze, 
Describes,  (the  first  verse  somehow  ends  with  victoire,) 
As  dispersant  partout  et  ses  membres  et  sa  gloire  ; 
Or,  if  I  were  over-desirons  of  earniiig 
A  repute  among  noodles  for  classical  learning, 
I  could  pick  you  a  score  of  allusions,  I  wis, 
As  new  as  the  jests  of  Didaskalos  tis  ; 
Better  still,  I  could  make  out  a  good  solid  list 
From  recondite  authors  who  do  not  exist, — 
But  that  would  be  naughty  :  at  least,  I  could  twist 
Something  out  of  Absyrtus,  or  turn  your  inquiries 
After  Milton's  prose  metaphor,  drawn  from  Osiris  ; — 
But,  as  Cicero  says  he  won't  say  this  or  that, 
(A  fetch,  I  must  say,  most  transparent  and  flat,) 
After  saying  whate'er  he  could  possibly  think  of, — 
I  simply  will  state  that  I  pause  on  the  brink  of 
A  mire,  ankle-deep,  of  deliberate  confusion, 
Made  up  of  old  jumbles  of  classic  allusion, 
So,  when  you  were  thinking  yourselves  to  be  pitied, 


174  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Just  conceive  how  much  harder  your  teeth  you  'd  have 

gritted, 
An  't  were  not  for  the  dulness  I  've  kindly  omitted. 

I  'd  apologize  here  for  my  many  digressions, 
Were  it  not  that  I  'm  certain  to  trip  into  fresh  ones, 
('T  is  so  hard  to  escape  if  you  get  in  their  mesh  once  ;) 
Just  reflect,  if  you  please,  how  't  is  said  by  Horatius, 
That  Maeonides  nods  now  and  then,  and,  my  gracious  ! 
It  certainly  does  look  a  little  bit  ominous 
When  he  gets  under  way  with  ton  d'apameibomenos. 
(Here  a  something  occurs  which  I'll  just  clap  a  rhyme  to, 
And  say  it  myself,  ere  a  Zoilus  has  time  to, — 
Any  author  a  nap  like  Van  Winkle's  may  take, 
If  he  only  contrive  to  keep  readers  awake, 
But  he  '11  very  soon  find  himself  laid  on  the  shelf, 
If  they  fall  a  nodding  when  he  nods  himself.) 

Once  for  all,  to  return,  and  to  stay,  will  I,  nill  I — 
When  Phoebus  expressed  his  desire  for  a  lily, 
Our  hero,  whose  homoeopathic  sagacity 
With  an  ocean  of  zeal  mixed  his  drop  of  capacity, 
Set  off  for  the  garden  as  fast  as  the  wind, 
(Or,  to  take  a  comparison  more  to  my  mind, 
As  a  sound  politician  leaves  conscience  behind,) 
And  leaped  the  low  fence,  as  a  party  hack  jumps 
O'er   his   principles,  when  something  else    turns   up 
trumps. 

He  was  gone  a  long  time,  and  Apollo  meanwhile, 
Went  over  some  sonnets  of  his  with  a  file, 
For  of  all  compositions,  he  thought  that  the  sonnet 
Best  repaid  all  the  toil  you  expended  upon  it ; 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  175 

It  should  reach  with  one  impulse  the  end  of  its  course, 

And  for  one  final  blow  collect  all  of  its  force  ; 

Not  a  verse  should  be  salient,  but  each   one  should 

tend 

With  a  wave-like  up-gathering  to  burst  at  the  end  ; — 
So,  condensing  the  strength  here,  there  smoothing  a 
wry  kink, 

He  was  killing  the  time,  when  up  walked  Mr.  ; 

At  a  few  steps  behind  him,  a  small  man  in  glasses', 
Went  dodging  about,  muttering  "  murderers  !  asses  !  " 
From  out  of  his  pocket  a  paper  he  'd  take, 
With  the  proud  look  of  martyrdom  tied  to  its  stake, 
And,  reading  a  squib  at  himself,  he  'd  say,   "Here  I 

see 

'Gainst  American  letters  a  bloody  conspiracy, 
They  are  all  by  my  personal  enemies  written  ; 
I  must  post  an  anonymous  letter  to  Britain, 
And  show  that  this  gall  is  the  merest  suggestion 
Of  spite  at  my  zeal  on  the  Copyright  question, 
For,  on  this  side  the  water,  't  is  prudent  to  pull 
O'er  the  eyes  of  the  public  their  national  wool, 
By  accusing  of  slavish  respect  to  John  Bull, 
All  American  authors  Avho  have  more  or  less 
Of  that  anti- American  humbug — success,' 
While  in  private  we  're  always  embracing  the  knees 
Of  some  twopenny  editor  over  the  seas, 
And  licking  his  critical  shoes,  for  you  know  't  is 
The  whole  aim  of  our  lives  to  get  one  English  '  no 
tice  '  ; 

My  American  puffs  I  would  willingly  burn  all, 
(They  're  all  from  one  source,  monthly,  weekly,  dinr- 

nal) 
To  get  but  a  kick  from  a  transmarine  journal ! " 


176  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

So,  culling  the  gibes  of  each  critical  scorner 
As  if  they  were  plums,  and  himself  were  Jack  Homer, 
He  came  cautiously  on,  peeping  round  every  corner. 
And  into  each  hole  where  a  weasel  might  pass  in, 
Expecting  the  knife  of  some  critic  assassin, 
Who  stabs  to  the  heart  with  a  caricature, 
Not  so  bad  as  those  daubs  of  the  Sun,  to  be  sure, 
Yet  done  with  a  dagger-o-type,  whose  vile  portraits 
Disperse  all  one's  good,  and  condense  all  one's  poor 
traits. 

Apollo  looked  up,  hearing  footsteps  approaching, 
And  slipped  out  of  sight  the  new  rhymes  he  was  broach 
ing,— 

"  Good  day,  Mr. ,  I  'm  happy  to  meet 

With  a  scholar  so  ripe,  and  a  critic  so  neat, 

Who   through  Grub-street  the   soul   of  a  gentleman 

carries,  — 

What  news  from  that  suburb  of  London  and  Paris 
Which  latterly  makes  such  shrill  claims  to  monopolize 
The  credit  of  being  the  New  World's  metropolis  ?  " 


' ( Why,  nothing  of  consequence,  save  this  attack 
On  my  friend  there,  behind,  by  some  pitiful  hack, 
Who  thinks  every  national  author  a  poor  one, 
That  is  n't  a  copy  of  something  that 's  foreign, 
And  assaults  the  American  Dick — 

"  Nay,  't  is  clear 

That  your  Damon  there  's  fond  of  a  flea  in  his  ear, 
And,  if  no  one  else  furnished  them  gratis,  on  tick 
He  would  buy  some  himself,  just  to  hear  the  old  click  ; 
Why,  I  honestly  think,  if  some  fool  in  Japan 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Should  turn  up  his  nose  at  the  'Poems  on  Man/ 
Your  friend  there  by  some  inward  instinct  would  know 

it, 

Would  get  it  translated,  reprinted,  and  show  it ; 
As  a  man  might  take  off  a  high  stock  to  exhibit 
The  autograph  round  his  own  neck  of  the  gibbet, 
Nor  would  let  it  rest  so,  but  fire  column  after  column, 
Signed  Cato,  or  Brutus,  or  something  as  solemn, 
By  way  of  displaying  his  critical  crosses, 
And  tweaking  that  poor  transatlantic  proboscis, 
His  broadsides  resulting  (and  this  there's  no  doubt  of,) 
In  successively  sinking  the  craft  they  're  fired  out  of. 
Now  nobody  knows  when  an  author  is  hit, 
If  he  don't  have  a  public  hysterical  fit ; 
Let  him  only  keep  close  in  his  snug  garret's  dim  ether, 
And  nobody  'd  think  of  his  critics — or  him  either  ; 
If  an  author  have  any  least  fibre  of  worth  in  him, 
Abuse  would  but  tickle  the  organ  of  mirth  in  him, 
All  the  critics  on  earth  cannot  crush  with  their  ban, 
One  word  that 's  in  tune  with  the  nature  of  man." 

"  Well,  perhaps  so  ;  meanwhile  I  have  brought  you  a 

book, 

Into  which  if  you  '11  just  have  the  goodness  to  look, 
You  may  feel  so  delighted,  whe.n  yon  have  got  through 

it, 

As  to  think  it  not  unworth  your  while  to  review  it, 
And  I  think  I  can  promise  your  thoughts,  if  you  do, 
A  place  in  the  next  Democratic  Keview." 

"  The  most  thankless  of  gods  you  must  surely  have 

tho't  me, 
For  this  is  the  forty-fourth  copy  you  've  brought  me, 

12 


178  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

I  have  given  them  away,  or  at  least  I  have  tried, 

But  I  've  forty-two  left,  standing  all  side  by  side, 

(The  man  who  accepted  that  one  copy,  died,) — 

From  one  end  of  a  shelf  to  the  other  they  reach, 

'  With  the  author's  respects  '  neatly  written  in  each. 

The  publisher,  sure,  will  proclaim  a  Te  Deum, 

When  he  hears  of  that  order  the  British  Museum 

Has  sent  for  one  set  of  what  books  were  first  printed 

In  America,  little  or  big, — for  'i  is  hinted 

That  this  is  the  first  truly  tangible  hope  he 

Has  ever  had  raised  for  the  sale  of  a  copy. 

I'  ve  thought  very  often  't  would  be  a  good  thing 

In  all  public'  collections  of  books,  if  a  wing 

Were  set  off  by  itself,  like   the   seas   from   the  dry 

lands, 

Marked  Literature  suited  to  desolate  islands, 
And  filled  with  such  books  as  could  never  be  read 
Save    by    readers    of    proofs,    forced    to    do    it    for 

bread, — 

Such  books  as  one's  wrecked   on   in  small  country- 
taverns, 

Such  as  hermits  might  mortify  over  in  caverns, 
Such  as  Satan,  if  printing  had  then  been  invented, 
As  the  climax  of  woe,  would  to  Job  have  presented, 
Such  as  Crusoe  might  dip  in,  although  there  are  few  so 
Outrageously  cornered  by  fate  as  poor  Crusoe  ; 
And  since  the  philanthropists  just  now  are  banging 
And  gibbeting  all  who  're  in  favor  of  hanging, — 
(Though  Cheever  has  proved  that  the  Bible  and  Altar 
Were  let  down  from  Heaven  at  the  end  of  a  halter, 
And  that  vital  religion  would  dull  and  grow  callous, 
Unrefreshed,    now    and    then,   with    a  sniff    of    the 
gallowa,) — 


±  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  179 

And  folks  are  beginning  to  think  it  looks  odd, 
To  choke  &  poor  scamp  for  the  glory  of  God  ; 
And  that  He  who  esteems  the  Virginia  reel 
A  bait  to  draw  saints  from  their  spiritual  weal, 
And  regards  the  quadrille  as  a  far  greater  knavery 
Than  crushing  His  African  children  with  slavery, — 
Since  all  who  take  part  in  a  waltz  or  cotillion 
Are  mounted  for  hell  on  the  Devil's  own  pillion, 
Who,  as  every  true  orthodox  Christian  well  knows, 
Approaches    the    heart     through    the    door     of    the 

toes, — 
That     He,     I    was    saying,     whose    judgments    are 

stored 

For  such  as  take  steps  in  despite  of  his  word, 
Should  look  with  delight  on  the  agonized  prancing 
Of  a  wretch  who  has  not  the  least  ground  for  his 

dancing, 
While  the  State,  standing  by,  sings  a  verse  from  the 

Psalter 

About  offering  to  God  on  his  favorite  halter, 
And,  when  the  legs  droop  from  their  twitching  diver 
gence, 

Sells  the  clothes  to  the  Jew,  and  the  corpse  to  the  sur 
geons  ; — 

Now,  instead  of  all  this,  I  think  I  can  direct  you 

all 

To  a  criminal  code  both  humane  and  effectual  ; — 
I  propose  to  shut  up  every  doer  of  wrong 
With  these   desperate  books,   for  such  terms,   short 

or  long, 

As  by  statute  in  such  cases  made  and  provided, 
Shall  be  by  your  wise  legislators  decided 


180  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Thus  : — Let  murderers   be   shut,  to  grow   wiser   and 

cooler, 

At  hard  labor  for  life  on  the  works  of  Miss ; 

Petty  thieves,   kept  from  flagranter    crimes  by  their 

fears, 

Shall  peruse  Yankee  Doodle  a  blank  term  of  years, — 
That  American  Punch,  like  the  English,  no  doubt — 
Just  the  sugar  and  lemons  and  spirit  left  out. 

"  But  stay,  here  comes  Tityrus  Griswold,  and  leads  on 
The  flocks  whom  he  first  plucks  alive,  and  then  feeds 

on, — 
A  loud    cackling    swarm,    in    whose   feathers  warm- 

drest, 
He  goes  for  as  perfect  a — swan,  as  the  rest. 

"There  comes  Emerson  first,   whose  rich  words, 

every  one, 

Are  like  gold  nails  in  temples  to  hang  trophies  on, 
Whose  prose  is  grand  verse,  while  his  verse,  the  Lord 

knows, 

Is  some  of  it  pr No,  't  is  not  even  prose  ; 

I'  m  speaking  of  metres  ;   some  poems  have  welled 
From  those  rare  depths  of  soul  that  have  ne'er  been 

excelled  ; 

They're  not  epics,  but  that  does  n't  matter  a  pin, 
In  creating,  the  only  hard  thing  's  to  begin  ; 
A  grass-blade  's  no  easier  to  make  than  an  oak, 
If  you  've  once   found  the  way,    you've  achieved  the 

grand  stroke  ; 

In  the  worst  of  his  poems  are  mines  of  rich  matter, 
But  thrown  in  a  heap  with  a  crush  and  a  clatter  ; 
Now  it  is  not  one  thing  nor  another  alone 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  181 

Makes  a  poem,  but  rather  the  general  tone, 
The  something  pervading,  uniting  the  whole, 
The  before  unconceived,  unconceivable  soul, 
So  that  just  in  removing  this  trifle  or  that,  you 
Take  away,  as  it  were,  a  chief  limb  of  the  statue  ; 
Roots,  wood,  bark,  and  leaves,  singly  perfect  may  be, 
But,  clapt  hodge-podge  together,    they  don't  make  a 
tree. 

"  But,  to  come   back   to  Emerson,   (whom  by   the 

way, 

I  believe  we  left  waiting,)  — his  is,  we  may  say, 
A  Greek  head  on  right  Yankee  shoulders,  whose  range 
Has  Olympus  for  one  pole,  for  t'  other  the  Exchange  ; 
He  seems,  to  my  thinking,  (although  I'  m  afraid 
The   comparison    must,    long    ere    this,     have    been 

made,) 
A    Plotinus-Montaigne,    where    the   Egyptian's    gold 

mist 

And  the  Gascon's  shrewd  wit  cheek-by-jowl  co-exist ; 
All  admire,  and  yet  scarcely  six  converts  he  's  got 
To  I  don't  (nor  they  either)  exactly  know  what ; 
For  though  he  builds  glorious  temples,  't  is  odd 
He  leaves  never  a  doorway  to  get  in  a  god. 
'T  is  refreshing  to  old-fashioned  people  like  me, 
To  meet  such  a  primitive  Pagan  as  he, 
In  whose  mind  all  creation  is  duly  respected 
As  parts  of  himself — just  a  little  projected  ; 
And  who 's  willing  to  worship  the  stars  and  the  sun, 
A  convert  to — nothing  but  Emerson. 
So  perfect  a  balance  there  is  in  his  head, 
That  he  talks   of  things  sometimes  as   if  they  were 

dead  ; 


182  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Life,  nature,  love,  God,  and  affairs  of  that  sort, 

He  looks  at  as  merely  ideas  ;  in  short, 

As  if  they  were  fossils  stuck  round  in  a  cabinet, 

Of  such  vast  extent  that  our  earth  's  a  mere  dab  in  it  ; 

Composed  just  as  he  is  inclined  to  conjecture  her, 

Namely,  one  part  pure  earth,  ninety-nine  parts  pure 

lecturer  ; 

Yon  are  filled  with  delight  at  his  clear  demonstration, 
Each  figure,  word,  gesture,  just  fits  the  occasion, 
With  the  quiet  precision  of  science  he  '11  sort  'em, 
But  you  can't  help  suspecting  the  whole  a  post  mor 
tem. 

"  There  are  persons,  mole-blind  to  the  soul's  make 
and  style, 

Who  insist  on  a  likeness  'twixt  him  and  Carlyle  ; 

To  compare  him  with  Plato  would  be  vastly  fairer, 

Carlyle  's  the  more  burly,  but  E.  is  the  rarer  ; 

He  sees  fewer  objects,  but  clearlier,  truelier, 

If  C.  's  as  original,  E.  's  more  peculiar  ; 

That  he  's  more  of  a  man  you  might  say  of  the  one, 

Of  the  other  he  's  more  of  an  Emerson  ; 

C.  's  the  Titan,  as  shaggy  of  mind  as  of  limb, — 

E.  the  clear-eyed  Olympian,  rapid  and  slim  ; 

The  one's  two-thirds  Norseman,  the  other  half  Greek, 

Where  the  one  's  most  abounding,  the  other  's  to  seek  ; 

C.'s  generals  require  to  be  seen  in  the  mass, — 

E.'s  specialties  gain  if  enlarged  by  the  glass  ; 

C.  gives  nature  and  God  his  own  fits  of  the  blues, 

And  rims  common-sense  things  with  mystical  hues, — 

E.  sits  in  a  mystery  calm  and  intense, 

And  looks  coolly  around  him  with  sharp  common- 
sense  ; 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

C.  shows  you  how  every-day  matters  unite 

With  the  dim  transdiurnal  recesses  of  night, — 

While  E.,  in  a  plain,  preternatural  way, 

Makes  mysteries  matters  of  mere  every  day  ; 

C.  draws  all  his  characters  quite  a  la  Fuseli, — 

He  don't  sketch  their  bundles  of  muscles  and  thews 

illy, 

But  he  paints  with  a  brush  so  untamed  and  profuse, 
They  seem  nothing  but  bundles  of  muscles  and  thews ; 
E.  is  rather  like  Flaxman,  lines  strait  and  severe, 
And  a  colorless  outline,  but  full,  round,  and  clear ; — 
To  the  men  he  thinks  worthy  he  frankly  accords 
The  design  of  a  white  marble  statue  in  words. 
C.  labors  to  get  at  the  centre,  and  then 
Take  a  reckoning  from  there  of  his  actions  and  men  ; 
E.  calmly  assumes  the  said  centre  as  granted, 
And,  given  himself,  has  whatever  is  wanted. 

"  He  has  imitators  in  scores,  who  omit 
No  part  of  the  man  but  his  wisdom  and  wit, — 
Who  go  carefully  o'er  the  sky-blue  of  his  brain, 
And  when  he  has  skimmed  it  once,  skim  it  again  ; 
If  at  all  they  resemble  him,  you  may  be  sure  it  is 
Because  their  shoals  mirror  his  mists  and  obscurities, 
As  a  mud-puddle  seems  deep  as  heaven  for  a  minute, 
While  a  cloud  that  floats  o'er  is  reflected  within  it. 

"  There  comes ,  for  instance  ;  to  see  him  '&  rare 

sport, 

Tread  in  Emerson's  tracks  with  legs  painfully  short ; 
How  he  jumps,  how  he  strains,  and  gets  red  in  tha 

face, 
To  keep  step  with  the  mystagogue's  natural  pac«  ! 


184:  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

He  follows  as  close  as  a  stick  to  a  rocket, 

His  fingers  exploring  the  prophet's  each  pocket. 

Fie,  for  shame,  brother  bard ;  with  good  fruit  of  your 

own 

Can't  yon  let  neighbor  Emerson's  orchards  alone  ? 
Besides,  't  is  no  use,  you  '11  not  find  e'en  a  core, — 

has  picked  up  all  the  windfalls  before. 

They  might  strip  every  tree,  and  E.  never  would  catch 

'em, 

His  Hesperides  have  no  rude  dragon  to  watch  'em ; 
When  they  send  him  a  dishfull,  and  ask  him  to  try  'em, 
He  never  suspects  how  the  sly  rogues  came  by  'em  ; 
He  wonders  why  't  is  there  are  none  such  his  trees  on. 
And  thinks  'em  the  best  he  has  tasted  this  season. 

"  Yonder,  calm  as  a  cloud,  Alcott  stalks  in  a  dream, 
And  fancies  himself  in  thy  groves,  Academe, 
With  the  Parthenon  nigh,  and  the  olive-trees  o'er  him, 
And  never  a  fact  to  perplex  him  or  bore  him, 
With  a  snug  room  at  Plato's,  when   night  comes,  to 

walk  to, 

And  people  from  morning  till  midnight  to  talk  to, 
And  from  midnight  till  morning,  nor  snore  in  their 

listening  ; — 

So  he  muses,  his  face  with  the  joy  of  it  glistening, 
For  his  highest  conceit  of  a  happiest  state  is 
Where  they  'd  live  upon   acorns,  and  hear  him  talk 

gratis ; 

And  indeed,  I  believe,  no  man  ever  talked  better — 
Each  sentence  hangs  perfectly  poised  to  a  letter ; 
He  seems  piling  words,  but  there  's  royal  dust  hid 
In  the  heart  of  each  sky-piercing  pyramid. 
While  he  talks  he  is  great,  but  goes  out  like  a  taper, 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  185 

If  you  shut  him  up  closely  with  pen,  ink,  and  paper  ; 
Yet  his  fingers  itch  for  'em  from  morning  till  night, 
And  he  thinks  he  does  wrong  if  he  don't  always  write  ; 
In  this,  as  in  all  things,  a  lamb  among  men, 
He  goes  to  sure  death  when  he  goes  to  his  pen. 

"  Close  behind  him  is  Brownson,  his  mouth  very  full 
With  attempting  to  gulp  a  Gregorian  bull ; 
Who  contrives,  spite  of  that,  to  pour  out  as  he  goes 
A  stream  of  transparent  and  forcible  prose  ; 
He  shifts  quite  about,  then  proceeds  to  expound 
That 't  is  merely  the  earth,  not  himself,  that  turns 

round, 

And  wishes  it  clearly  impressed  on  your  mind, 
That  the  weather-cock  rules  and  not  follows  the  wind  ; 
Proving  first,  then  as  deftly  confuting  each  side, 
With  no  doctrine  pleased  that 's  not  somewhere  denied, 
He  lays  the  denier  away  on  the  shelf, 
And  then — down  beside  him  lies  gravely  himself. 
He  's  the  Salt  River  boatman,  who  always  stands  will 
ing 

To  convey  friend  or  foe  without  charging  a  shilling, 
And  so  fond  of  a  trip  that,  when  leisure  's  to  spare, 
He  '11  row  himself  up,  if  he  can't  get  a  fare. 
The  worst  of  it  is,  that  his  logic  's  so  strong, 
That  of  two  sides  he  commonly  chooses  the  wrong  ; 
If  there  is  only  one,  why,  he  '11  split  it  in  two, 
And  first  pummel  this  half,  then  that,  black  and  blue. 
That  white  's  white  needs  no  proof,  but  it  takes  a  deep 

fellow 

To  prove  it  jet-black,  and  that  jet-black  is  yellow. 
He  offers  the  true  faith  to  drink  in  a  sieve, — 
When  it  reaches  your  lips  there  's  naught  left  to  believe 


186  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

But  a  few  silly-  (syllo-,  I  mean,)  -gisms  that  squat  'em 
Like  tadpoles,  o'er  joyed  with  the  mud  at  the  bottom. 

"  There  is  Willis,  so  natty  and  jaunty  and  gay, 
Who  says  his  best  things  in  so  foppish  a  way, 
With  conceits  and  pet  phrases  so  thickly  o'erlaying  'em, 
That  one  hardly  knows  whether  to  thank  him  for  say 
ing  'em  ; 

Over-ornament  ruins  both  poem  and  prose, 
Just  conceive  of  a  muse  with  a  ring  in  her  nose  ! 
His  prose  had  a  natural  grace  of  its  own, 
And  enough  of  it,  too,  if  he  'd  let  it  alone  ; 
But  he  twitches  and  jerks  so,  one  fairly  gets  tired, 
And  is  forced  to  forgive  where  he  might  have  admired  : 
Yet  whenever  it  slips  away  free  and  unlaced, 
It  runs  like  a  stream  with  a  musical  waste, 
And  gurgles  along  with  the  liquidest  sweep  ; — 
'T  is  not  deep  as  a  river,  but  who  'd  have  it  deep  ? 
In  a  country  where  scarcely  a  village  is  found 
That  has  not  its  author  sublime  and  profound, 
For  some  one  to  be  slightly  shoal  is  a  duty, 
And  Willis's  shallowness  makes  half  his  beauty. 
His  prose  winds  along  with  a  blithe,  gurgling  error, 
And  reflects  all  of  Heaven  it  can  see  in  its  mirror. 
'T  is  a  narrowish  strip,  but  it  is  not  an  artifice, — 
'T  is  the  true  out-of-doors  with  its  genuine  hearty  phiz  ; 
It  is  Nature  herself,  and  there  's  something  in  that, 
Since  most  brains  reflect  but  the  crown  of  a  hat. 
No  volume  I  know  to  read  under  a  tree, 
More  truly  delicious  than  his  A  1'Abri, 
With  the  shadows  of  leaves  flowing  over  your  book, 
Like  ripple-shades  netting  the  bed  of  a  brook  ; 
With  June  coming  softly  your  shoulder  to  look  orer, 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Breezes  waiting  to  turn  every  leaf  of  your  book  aver, 
And  Nature  to  criticise  still  as  you  read, — 
The  page  that  bears  that  is  a  rare  one  indeed. 

"  He's  so  innate  a  cockney,  that  had  he  been  born 
Where  plain  bare-skin  's  the  only   full-dress  that  is 

worn, 

He  'd  have  given  his  own  such  an  air  that  you  M  say 
'T  had  been  made  by  a  tailor  to  lounge  in  Broadway. 
His  nature  's  a  glass  of  champagne  with  the  foam  on  % 
As  tender  as  Fletcher,  as  witty  as  Beaumont ; 
So  his  best  things  are  done  in  the  flush  of  the  moment, 
If  he  wait,  all  is  spoiled  ;  he  may  stir  it  and  shake  it, 
But  the  fixed  air  once  gone,  he  can  never  re-make  it ; 
He  might  be  a  marvel  of  easy  delightfulness, 
If  he  would  not  sometimes  leave  the  r  out  of  spright- 

fulness  ; 

And  he  ought  to  let  Scripture  alone — 't  is  self-slaughter, 
For  nobody  likes  inspiration  and  water. 
He'd  have  been  just  the  fellow  to  sup  at  the  Mermaid, 
Cracking  jokes  at  rare  Ben,  with  an  eye  to  the  bar 
maid, 

His  wit  running  up  as  Canary  ran  down, — 
The  topmost  bright  bubble  on  the  wave  of  The  Town. 

"  Here  comes  Parker,  the  Orson  of  parsons,  a  man 
Whom  the  Church  undertook  to  put  under  her  ban, — 
(The  Church  of  Socinus,  I  mean) — his  opinions 
Being  So-  (ultra)  -cinian,  they  shocked  the  Socinians  ; 
They  believed — faith  I'm  puzzled —  I  think  I  may  call 
Their  belief  a  believing  in  nothing  at  all, 
Or  something  of  that  sort ;  I  know  they  all  went 
For  a  general  union  of  total  dissent : 


188  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

He  went  a  step  farther  ;  without  cough  or  hem, 
He  frankly  avowed  he  believed  not  in  them  ; 
And,  before  he  could  be  jumbled  up  or  prevented, 
From  their  orthodox  kind  of  dissent  he  dissented. 
There  was  heresy  here,  you  perceive,  for  the  right 
Of  privately  judging  means  simply  that  light 
Has  been  granted  to  me,  for  deciding  on  you, 
And,  in  happier  times,  before  Atheism  grew, 
The  deed  contained  clauses  for  cooking  you,  too. 
Now  at  Xerxes  and  Knut  we  all  laugh,  yet  our  foot 
With  the  same  wave  is  wet  that  mocked  Xerxes  and 

Knut; 

And  we  all  entertain  a  sincere  private  notion, 
That  our  Thus  far  !  will  have  a  great  weight  with  the 

ocean. 

•*T  was  so  with  our  liberal  Christians  :  they  bore 
With  sincerest  conviction  their  chairs  to  the  shore  ; 
They  brandished  their  worn  theological  birches, 
Bade  natural  progress  keep  out  of  the  Churches, 
And  expected  the  lines  they  had  drawn  to  prevail 
With  the  fast-rising  tide  to  keep  out  of  their  pale  ; 
They  had  formerly  dammed  the  Pontifical  See, 
And  the  same  thing,  they  thought,  would   do  nicely 

for  P.  ; 
But  he  turned  up  his  nose  at  their  murmuring  and 

shamming, 

And  cared  (shall  I  say  ?)   not  a  d —  for  their  dam 
ming ; 
So  they  first  read  him  out  of  their  Church,  and  next 

minute 

Turned  round  and  declared  he  had  never  been  in  it. 
But  the  ban  was  too  small  or  the  man  was  too  big, 
For  he  recks  not  their  bells,  books,  and  candles  a  fig ; 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

(He  don't  look  like  a  man  who  would  stay  treated 

shabbily, 

Sophroniscus'  son's  head  o'er    the    features  of  Rab 
elais  ;) — 

He  bangs  and  bethwacks  them, — their  backs  he  salutes 
With  the  whole  tree  of  knowledge  torn  up  by  the  roots  ; 
His  sermons  with  satire  are  plenteously  verjuiced, 
And  he  talks  in  one  breath  of  Confutzee,  Cass,  Zer- 

duscht 

Jack  Robinson,  Peter  the  Hermit,  Strap,  Dathan, 
Gush,  Pitt  (not  the  bottomless,  that  he  's  no  faith  in), 
Pan,   Pillicock,    Shakspeare,    Paul,    Toots,    Monsieur 

Tonson, 

Aldebaran,  Alcander,  Ben  Khorat,  Ben  Jonson, 
Thoth,  Richter,  Joe  Smith,  Father  Paul,  Judah  Monis, 
Musaeus,  Muretus, —  /*  Scorpionis, 
Maccabee,  Maccaboy,  Mac — Mac — ah  !  Machiavelli, 
Condorcet,  Count  d'Orsay,  Conder,  Say,  Ganganelli, 
Orion,  O'Connell,  the  Chevalier  D'O, 
(Whom  the  great  Sully  speaks  of,)  TO  nav,  the  great 

toe 

Of  the  statue  of  Jupiter,  now  made  to  pass 
For  that  of  Jew  Peter  by  good  Romish  brass, — 
(You  may  add  for  yourselves,  for  I  find  it  a  bore, 
All  the  names  you  have  ever,  or  not,  heard  before, 
And  when  you  've  done  that — why,  invent  a  few  more.) 
His  hearers  can't  tell  you  on  Sunday  beforehand, 
If  in  that  day's  discourse  they '  11  be  Bibled  or  Koraned, 
For  he  's  seized  the  idea  (by  his  martyrdom  fired,) 
That  all  men  (not  orthodox)  may  be  inspired  ; 
Yet,  though  wisdom  profane  with  his  creed  he   may 

weave  in, 
He  makes  it  quite  clear  what  he  does  n't  believe  in, 


190  A  FABLE  FOB  THE  CRITICS. 

While  some,  who  decry  him,  think  all  Kingdom  Corns 
la  a  sort  of  a,  kind  of  a,  species  of  Hum, 
Of  which,  as  it  were,  so  to  speak,  not  a  crumb 
Would  be  left,  if  we  did  n't  keep  carefully  mum, 
And,  to  make  a  clean  breast,  that  't  is  perfectly  plain 
That  all  kinds  of  wisdom  are  somewhat  profane ; 
Now  P/s  creed  than  this  may  be  lighter  or  darker, 
But  in   one  thing,  't  is  clear,  he  has  faith,  namely — 

Parker ; 

And  this  is  what  makes  him  the  crowd-drawing  preacher, 
There  's  a  back-ground  of  god  to  each  hard-working 

feature, 

Every  word  that  he  speaks  has  been  fierily  furnaced 
In  the  blast  of  a  life  that  has  struggled  in  earnest : 
There  he  stands,  looking  more  like  a  ploughman  than 

priest, 

If  not  dreadfully  awkward,  not  graceful  at  least, 
His  gestures  all  downright  and  same,  if  you  will, 
As  of  brown-fisted  Hobnail  in  hoeing  a  drill, 
But  his  periods  fall  on  you,  stroke  after  stroke, 
Like  the  blows  of  a  lumberer  felling  an  oak, 
You  forget  the  man  wholly,  you  're  thankful  to  meet 
With  a  preacher  who  smacks  of  the  field  and  the  street, 
And  to  hear,  you  're  not  over-particular  whence, 
Almost  Taylor's  profusion,  quite  Latimer's  eense. 


"  There  is  Bryant,  as  quiet,  as   cool,  and  as  digni 
fied, 

As  a  smooth,  silent  iceberg,  that  never  is  ignified, 
Save  when  by  reflection  't  is  kindled  o'  nights 
With  a  semblance  of  flame  by    the  chill  Northern 
Lights. 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  191 

He  may  rank   (Griswold  says  so)  first  bard  of  your 

nation, 
(There's  no  doubt  that  he  stands  in  supreme  iceola- 

tion,) 

Your  topmost  Parnassus  he  may  set  his  heel  on, 
But  no  warm  applauses  come,  peal  following  peal  on, — 
He  's  too  smooth  and  too  polished  to  hang  any  zeal  on  : 
Unqualified  merits,  I  '11  grant,  if  you    choose,  he  has 

'em, 

But  he  lacks  the  one  merit  of  kindling  enthusiasm  ; 
If  he  stir  you  at  all,  it  is  just,  on  my  soul, 
Like  being  stirred  up  with  the  very  North  Pole. 

"He  is  very  nice  reading  in  summer,  but  inter 

2V0s,  we  don't  want  extra  freezing  in  winter  ; 

Take  him  up  in  the  depth  of  July,  my  advice  is, 

When  you  feel  an  Egyptian  devotion  to  ices. 

But,  deduct  all  yon  can,  there's  enough  that's  right 
good  in  him, 

He  has  a  true  soul  for  field,  river,  and  wood  in  him ; 

And  his  heart,  in  the  midst  of  brick  walls,  or  where'er 
it  is, 

Glows,  softens,  and  thrills  with  the  tenderest  chari 
ties, — 

To  you  mortals  that  delve  in  this  trade- rid  den  planet  ? 

No,  to  old  Berkshire's  hills,  with  their  limestone  and 
granite. 

If  you  're  one  who  in  loco  (add/oco  here)  desipis, 

You  will  get  of  his  outermost  heart  (as  I  guess)  a  piece  ; 

But  you  'd  get  deeper  down  if  you  came  as  a  precipice, 

And  would  break  the  last  seal  of  its  inwardest  foun 
tain, 

If  you  only  could  palm  yourself  off  for  a  mountain. 


192  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Mr.  Quivis,  or  somebody  quite  as  discerning, 
Some  scholar  who  's  hourly  expecting  his  learning, 
Calls  B.  the  American  Wordsworth  ;  but  Wordsworth 
Is  worth  near  as  much  as  your  whole   tuneful  herd's 

worth. 

No,  don't  be  absurd,  he  'a  an  excellent  Bryant  ; 
But,  my  friends,  you'll  endanger  the  life  of  your  client, 
By  attempting  to  stretch  him  up  into  a  giant  : 
If  you  choose  to  compare  him,  I  think  there  are  two 

per- 

-sons  fit  for  a  parallel — Thomson  and  Cowper  ; ' 
I  don't  mean  exactly, — there's  something  of  each, 
There  's  T.'s  love  of  nature,  C/s  penchant  to  preach  ; 
Just  mix  up  their  minds  so  that  C.'s  spice  of  craziness 
Shall  balance  and  neutralize  T.'s  turn  for  laziness, 
And  it  gives  you  a  brain  cool,  quite  frictionless,  quiet, 
Whose  internal  police  nips  the  buds  of  all  riot, — 
A  brain  like  a  permanent  strait-jacket  put  on 
The  heart  which  strives  vainly  to  burst  off  a  button, — 
A  brain  which,  without  being  slow  or  mechanic, 
Does  more  than  a  larger  less  drilled,  more  volcanic  ; 
He  's  a  Cowper  condensed,  with  no  craziness  bitten, 
And  the  advantage  that  Wordsworth  before  him  has 

written. 

"  But,  my  dear  little  bardlings,  don't  prick  up  your 

ears, 

Nor  suppose  I  would  rank  you  and  Bryant  as  peers  : 
If  I  call  him  an  iceberg,  I  don't  mean  to  say 

1  To  demonstrate  quickly  and  easily  how  per 
versely  absurd  't  is  to  sound  this  name  Cowper, 
As  people  in  general  call  him  named  super, 
I  just  add  that  he  rhymes  it  himself  with  horse-trooper, 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  193 

1'here  is  nothing  in  that  which  is  grand,  in  its  way  ; 

He  is  almost  the  one  of  your  poets  that  knows 

How   much   grace,  strength,  and   dignity   lie  in   Ke- 

pose ; 

If  he  sometimes  fall  short,  he  is  too  wise  to  mar 
His  thought's  modest  fulness  by  going  too  far  ; 
JT  would  be  well  if  your  authors  should  all  make  a 

trial 

Of  what  virtue  there  is  in  severe  self-denial, 
And  measure  their  writings  by  Hesiod's  staff, 
Which  teaches  that  all  has  less  value  than  half. 

"  There  is  Whittier,  whose  swelling  and  vehement 

heart 

Strains  the  strait-breasted  drab  of  the  Quaker  apart, 
And  reveals  the  live  Man,  still  supreme  and  erect 
Underneath  the  bemummying  wrappers  of  sect ; 
There  was  ne'er  a  man  born  who  had  more  of  the 

swing 

Of  the  true  lyric  bard  and  all  that  kind  of  thing ; 
And  his  failures  arise,  (though  perhaps  he  don't  know 

it,) 
From  the  very    same   cause    that  has  made    him  a 

poet, — 

A  fervor  of  mind  which  knows  no  separation 
'Twixt  simple  excitement  and  pure  inspiration, 
As  my  Pythoness  erst  sometimes  erred  from  not  know 
ing 

If  't  were  I  or  mere  wind  through  her  tripod  was  blow 
ing  ; 

Let  his  mind  once  get  head  in  its  favorite  direction 
And  the  torrent  of  verse   bursts  the  dams  of  reflec 
tion, 
'3 


194  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

While,  borne  with  the  rush  of  the  meter  along, 
The  poet  may  chance  to  go  right  or  go  wrong, 
Content  with  the  whirl  and  delirium  of  song  ; 
Then  his  grammar 's  not  always  correct,  nor  his  rhymes, 
And  he  's  prone  to  repeat  his  own  lyrics  sometimes, 
Not  his  best,  though,  for  those  are  struck  off  at  white- 
heats 
When  the  heart    in   his    breast    like  a  trip-hammer 

beats, 

And  can  ne'er  be  repeated  again  any  more 
Than  they  could  have  been  carefully  plotted  before  : 
Like  old  what  's-his-name  there  at  the  battle  of  Hast 
ings, 

(Who,  however,  gave  more  than  mere  rhythmical  bast 
ings,) 

Our  Quaker  leads  off  metaphorical  fights 
For  reform  and  whatever  they  call  human  rights, 
Both  singing  and  striking  in  front  of  the  war 
And  hitting  his  foes  with  the  mallet  of  Thor  ; 
Anne  liaec,  one  exclaims,  on  beholding  his  knocks, 
Vestisfilii  tui,  0,  leather-clad  Fox  ? 
Can  that  be  thy  son,  in  the  battle's  mid  din, 
Preaching  brotherly  love  and  ther.  driving  it  in 
To  the  brain  of  the  tough  old  Goliath  of  sin, 
With  the  smoothest  of  pebbles  from  Castaly's  spring 
Impressed  on  his  hard  moral  sense  with  a  sling  ? 

"  All  honor  and  praise  to  the  right-hearted  bard 
Who  was  true  to  The  Voice  when  such  service  waa 

hard, 

Who  himself  was  so  free  he  dared  sing  for  the  slave 
When  to  look  but  a  protest  in  silence  was  brave  ; 
All  honor  and  praise  to  the  women  and  men 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  195 

Who  spoke  ont  for  the  dumb  and  the  down-trodden 

then  ! 

I  need  not  to  name  them,  already  for  each 
I  see  History  preparing  the  statue  and  niche  ; 
They  were  harsh,  but  shall  you  be  so  shocked  at  hard 

words 

Who  have  beaten  your  pruning  hooks  up  into  swords, 
Whose  rewards  and  hurrahs  men  are  surer  to  gain 
By  the  reaping  of  men  and  of  women  than  grain  ? 
Why  should  you  stand  aghast  at  their  fierce  wordy  war, 

if 

You  scalp  one  another  for  Bank  or  for  Tariff  ? 
Your    calling  them  cut-throats    and  knaves  all  day 

long 

Don't  prove  that  the  use  of  hard  language  is  wrong  ; 
While  the  World's  heart  beats  quicker  to  think  of  such 

men 

As  signed  Tyranny's  doom  with  a  bloody  steel-pen, 
While  on  Fourth-of -Julys  beardless  orators  fright  one 
With  hints  at  Harmodius  and  Aristogeiton, 
You  need  not  look  shy  at  your  sisters  and  brothers 
Who    stab     with    sharp    words    for    the    freedom    of 

others  ; — 

No,  a  wreath,  twine  a  wreath  for  the  loyal  and  true 
Who,  for  sake  of  the  many,  dared  stand  with  the  few, 
Not  of  blood-spattered  laurel  for  enemies  braved, 
But  of  broad,  peaceful  oak-leaves  for  citizens  saved  ! 

"  Here  comes  Dana,  abstractedly  loitering  along, 
Involved  in  a  paulo-post-future  of  song, 
Who  '11  be  going  to  write  what  '11  never  be  written 
Till  the   Muse,  ere  he  thinks  of  it,  gives  him   the 
mitten, — 


196  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Who  is  so  well  aware  of  how  things  should  be  done, 
That   his   own    works    displease   him   before   they'rt 

begun,— 

Who  so  well  all  that  makes  up  good  poetry  knows, 
That  the  best  of  his  poems  is  written  in  prose  ; 
All  saddled  and  bridled  stood  Pegasus  waiting, 
He  was  booted  and  spurred,  but  he  loitered  debating, 
In  a  very  grave  question  his  soul  was  immersed, — 
Which  foot  in  the  stirrup  he  ought  to  put  first ; 
And,  while  this  point  and  that  he  judicially  dwelt  on, 
He,  somehow  or  other,  had  written  Paul  Felton, 
Whose  beauties  or  faults,  whichsoever  you  see  there, 
You  '11  allow  only  genius  could  hit  upon  either. 
That  he  once  was  the  Idle  Man  none  will  deplore, 
But  I  fear  he  will  never  be  any  thing  more  ; 
The  ocean  of  song  heaves  and  glitters  before  him, 
The  depth  and  the  vastness  and  longing  sweep  o'er 

him, 

He  knows  every  breaker  and  shoal  on  the  chart, 
He.  has  the  Coast  Pilot  and  so  on  by  heart, 
Yet  he  spends  his  whole   life,  like   the  man   in   the 

fable, 
In  learning  to  swim  on  his  library-table. 

"  There  swaggers  John   Neal,  who  has  wasted   in 

Maine 

The  sinews  and  chords  of  his  pugilist  brain, 
Who  might  have    been  poet,   but  that,  in  its  stead, 

he 

Preferred  to  believe  that  he  was  so  already  ; 
Too  hasty  to  wait  till  Art's  ripe  fruit  should  drop, 
He  must  pelt  down  an  unripe  and  colicky  crop  ; 
Who  took  to  the  law,  and  had  this  sterling  plea  for  it, 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  197 

It  required  him  to  quarrel,  and  paid  him  a  fee  for  it  ; 
A  man  who  's  made  less  than  he  might  have,  because 
He  always  has  thought  himself  more  than  he  was, — 
Who,  with  very  good  natural  gifts  as  a  bard, 
Broke  the  strings  of  his  lyre  out  by  striking  too  hard, 
And  cracked  half  the  notes  of  a  truly  fine  voice, 
Because  song  drew  less  instant  attention  than  noise. 
Ah,  men  do  not  know  how  much  strength  is  in  poise, 
That  he  goes  the  farthest  who  goes  far  enough, 
And  that  all  beyond  that  is  just  bother  and  stuff. 
No  vain  man  matures,  he  makes  too  much  new  wood ; 
His  blooms  are  too  thick  for  the  fruit  to  be  good  ; 
'T  is  the  modest  man  ripens,  't  is  he  that  achieves, 
Just  what 's  needed  of  sunshine  and  shade  he  receives  ; 
Grapes,    to   mellow,    require   the    cool   dark    of  their 

leaves  ; 
Neal  wants  balance ;  he  throws  his  mind  always  too 

far, 

And  whisks  out  flocks  of  comets,  but  never  a  star  ; 
He  has  so  much  muscle,  and  loves  so  to  show  it, 
That  he  strips  himself  naked  to  prove  he  's  a  poet, 
And,  to  show  he   could  leap  Art's  wide   ditch,  if  he 

tried, 

Jumps  clean  o'er  it,  and  into  the  hedge  t'  other  side. 
He  has  strength,  but  there 's  nothing  about  him  in 

keeping ; 

One  gets  surelier  onward  by  walking  than  leaping ; 
He  has  used  his  own  sinews  himself  to  distress, 
And  had  done  vastly  more  had  he  done  vastly  less  ; 
In  letters,  too  soon  is  as  bad  as  too  late, 
Could  he  only  have  waited  he  might  have  been  great, 
But  he  plumped  into  Helicon  up  to  the  waist, 
And  muddied  the  stream  ere  he  took  his  first  taste. 


198  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

"  There  is  Hawthorne,  with  genius  so  shrinking  and 

rare 

That  you  hardly  at  first  see  the  strength  that  is  there ; 
A  frame  so  robust,  with  a  nature  so  sweet, 
So  earnest,  so  graceful,  so  solid,  so  fleet, 
Is  worth  a  descent  from  Olympus  to  meet ; 
'T  is  as  if  a  rough  oak  that  for  ages  had  stood, 
With  his  gnarled  bony  branches  like  ribs  of  the  wood, 
Should  bloom,  after  cycles  of  struggle  and  scathe, 
With  a  single  anemone  trembly  and  rathe ; 
His  strength  is  so  tender,  his  wildness  so  meek, 
That  a  suitable  parallel  sets  one  to  seek, — 
He  's  a  John  Bunyan  Fouque,  a  Puritan  Tieck  ; 
When  Nature  was  shaping  him,  clay  was  not  granted 
For  making  so  full-sized  a  man  as  she  wanted, 
So,  to  fill  out  her  model,  a  little  she  spared 
From  some  finer-grained  stuff  for  a  woman  prepared, 
And  she  could  not  have  hit  a  more  excellent  plan 
For  making  him  fully  and  perfectly  man. 
The  success  of  her  scheme  gave  her  so  much  delight, 
That  she  tried  it  again,  shortly  after,  in  Dwight ; 
Only,  while  she  was  kneading  and  shaping  the  clay, 
She  sang  to  her  work  in  her  sweet  childish  way, 
And  found,  when  she  'd  put  the  last  touch  to  his  soul, 
That  the  music  had  somehow  got  mixed  with  the  whole. 

"  Here  's  Cooper,  who  ?s  written  six  volumes  to  show 
He  's  as  good  as  a  lord  :  well,  let 's  grant  that  he  's  so  , 
If  a  person  prefer  that  description  of  praise, 
Why,  a  coronet  's  certainty  cheaper  than  bays  ; 
But  he  need  take  no  pains  to  convince  us  he'  &  not 
(As  his  enemies  say)  the  American  Scott. 
Choose  any  twelve  men,  and  let  C.  read  aloud 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  199 

That  one  of  his  novels  of  which  he  's  most  proud, 
And  I  'd  lay  any  bet  that,  without  ever  quitting 
Their  box,  they  'd  be  all,  to  a  man,  for  acquitting. 
He  has  drawn  you  one  character,  though,  that  is  new, 
One  wildflower  he  's  plucked  that  is  wet  with  the  dew 
Of  this  fresh  Western   world,  and,  the  thing  not   to 

mince, 

He  has  done  naught  but  copy  it  ill  ever  since ; 
His  Indians,  with  proper  respect  be  it  said, 
Are  just  Natty  Bumpo  daubed  over  with  red, 
And  his  very  Long  Toms  are  the  same  useful  Nat, 
Eigged  up  in  duck  pants  and  a  sou'-wester  hat, 
(Though,  once  in  a  Coffin,  a  good  chance  was  found 
To  have  slipt  the  old  fellow  away  underground.) 
All  his  other  men-figures  are  clothes  upon  sticks, 
The  dernier  chemise  of  a  man  in  a  fix, 
(As  a  captain  besieged,  when  his  garrison  ''s  small, 
Sets  up  caps  upon  poles  to  be  seen  o  'er  the  wall ;) 
And  the  women  he  draws  from  one  model  don't  vary, 
All  sappy  as  maples  and  flat  as  a  prairie. 
When  a  character  's  wanted,  he  goes  to  the  task 
As  a  cooper  would  do  in  composing  a  cask  ; 
He  picks  out  the  staves,  of  their  qualities  heedful, 
Just  hoops  them  together  as  tight  as  is  needful, 
And,  if  the  best  fortune  should  crown  the  attempt,  he 
Has  made  at  the  most  something  wooden  and  empty. 

"  Don't  suppose  I  would  underrate  Cooper's  abilities, 
If  I  thought  you  'd  do  that,  I  should  feel  very  ill  at  ease  ; 
The  men  who  have  given  to  one  character  life 
And  objective  existence,  are  not  very  rife, 
You  may  number  them   all,    both   prose-writers    and 
singers, 


200  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Without  overrunning  the  bounds  of  your  fingers, 
And  Natty  won't  go  to  oblivion  quicker 
Than  Adams  the  parson  or  Primrose  the  vicar. 

"  There  is  one  thing  in  Cooper  I  like,  too,  and  that 

is 

That  on  manners  he  lectures  his  countrymen  gratis  ; 
Not  precisely  so  either,  because,  for  a  rarity, 
He  is  paid  for  his  tickets  in  unpopularity. 
Now  he  may  overcharge  his  American  pictures, 
But  you  '11  grant  there  's  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  his 

strictures  ; 

And  I  honor  the  man  who  is  willing  to  sink 
Half  his  present  repute  for  the  freedom  to  think, 
And,    when  he  has  thought,  be  his    cause    strong    or 

weak, 

Will  risk  t'  other  half  for  the  freedom  to  speak, 
Caring  naught  for  what  vengeance   the   mob    has   in 

store, 
Let  that  mob  be  the  upper  ten  thousand  or  lower. 

"  There  are  truths  you  Americans  need  to  be  told, 
And  it  never  '11  refute  them  to  swagger  and  scold  ; 
John  Bull,  looking  o'er  the  Atlantic,  in  choler 
At  your  aptness  for  trade,  says  you  worship  the  dollar  ; 
But  to  scorn  such  i-dollar-try  's  what  very  few  do, 
And  John  goes  to  that  church  as  often  as  you  do. 
No  matter  what  John  says,  don't  try  to  outcrow  him, 
'T  is  enough  to  go  quietly  on  and  outgrow  him ; 
Like  most  fathers,  Bull  hates  to  see  Number  One 
Displacing  himself  in  the  mind  of  his  son, 
And  detests  the  same  faults  in  himself  he  'd  neglected 
When  he  sees  them  again  in  his  child's  glass  reflected  ; 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  201 

To  love  one  another  you  're  too  likely  by  half, 
If  he  is  a  bull,  you  're  a  pretty  stout  calf, 
And  tear  your  own  pasture  for  naught  but  to  show 
What  a  nice  pair  of  horns  you  're  beginning  to  grow. 

"  There  are  one  or  two  things  I  should  just  like  to 

hint, 

For  you  don't  often  get  the  truth  told  you  in  print ; 
The  most  of  you  (this  is  what  strikes  all  beholders) 
Have  a  mental  and  physical  stoop  in  the  shoulders  ; 
Though  you  ought  to  be  free  as  the  winds  and  the 

waves, 

You  've  the  gait  and  the  manners  of  runaway  slaves  ; 
Tho'  you   brag   of  your   New  World,  you  don't  half 

believe  in  it, 

And  as  much  of  the  Old  as  is  possible  weave  in  it ; 
Your  goddess  of  freedom,  a  tight,  buxom  girl, 
With  lips  like  a  cherry  and  teeth  like  a  pearl, 
With  eyes  bold  as  Here's,  and  hair  floating  free, 
And  full  of  the  sun  as  the  spray  of  the  sea, 
Who  can  sing  at  a  husking  or  romp  at  a  shearing, 
Who  can  trip  through  the  forests  alone  without  fearing, 
Who  can  drive  home  the  cows  with  a  song  through  the 


Keeps  glancing  aside  into  Europe's  cracked  glass, 
Hides  her  red  hands  in  gloves,  pinches  up  her  lithe 

waist, 

And  makes  herself  wretched  with  transmarine  taste  ; 
She  loses  her  fresh  country  charm  when  she  takes 
Any  mirror  except  her  own  rivers  and  lakes. 

"  You  steal  Englishmen's  books  and  think  English 
men's  thought, 
With  their  salt  on  her  tail  your  wild  eagle  is  caught ; 


202  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

5four  literature  suits  its  each  whisper  and  motion 

To  what  will  be  thought  of  it  over  the  ocean  ; 

The  cast  clothes  of  Europe  your  statesmanship  tries 

And  mumbles  again  the  old  blarneys  and  lies  ; — 

Forget  Europe  wholly,  your  veins  throb  with  blood 

To  which  the  dull  current  in  hers  is  but  mud  ; 

Let  her  sneer,  let  her  say  your  experiment  fails, 

In  her  voice  there  's  a  tremble  e'en  now  while  she  rails 

And  your  shore  will  soon  be  in  the  nature  of  things 

Covered  thick  with  gilt  driftwood  of  runaway  kings, 

Where  alone,  as  it  were  in  a  Longfellow's  Waif, 

Her  fugitive  pieces  will  find  themselves  safe. 

0,  my  friends,  thank  your  God,  if  you  have  one,  that  he 

'Tvvixt  the  Old  World  and  you  set  the  gulf  of  a  sea  ; 

Be  strong-backed,  brown-handed,  upright  as  your  pines, 

By  the  scale  of  a  hemisphere  shape  your  designs, 

Be  true  to  yourselves  and  this  new  nineteenth  age, 

As  a  statue  by  Powers,  or  a  picture  by  Page, 

Plough,  dig,  sail,  forge,  build,  carve,  paint,  make  all 

things  new, 

To  your  own  New- World  instincts  contrive  to  be  true, 
Keep  your  ears  open  wide  to  the  Future's  first  call, 
Be  whatever  you  will,  but  yourselves  first  of  all, 
Stand  fronting  the  dawn  on  Toil's  heaven-scaling  peaks, 
And  become  my  new  race  of  more  practical  Greeks. — 
Hem  !  your  likeness  at  present,  I  shudder  to  tell  o'  't, 
Is  that  you  have  your  slaves,  and  the  Greek  had  his 

helot." 

Here  a  gentleman  present,  who  had  in  his  attic 
More  pepper  than  brains,  shrieked — "  The  man  '*  a 

fanatic, 
I'm  a,  capital  tailor  with  warm  tar  and  feathers, 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  203 

And  will  make  him  a  suit  that  '11  serve  in  all  weathers  ; 
But    we  '11   argue   the    point    first,    I'm    willing    to 

reason  't, 

Palaver  before  condemnation  's  but  decent, 
So,  through  my  humble  person,  Humanity  begs 
Of  the  friends  of  true  freedom  a  loan  of  bad  eggs." 
But  Apollo  let  one  such  a  look  of  his  show  forth 
As  when  ijis  vuxrt  loua>s,  and  so  forth, 
And  the  gentleman  somehow  slunk  out  of  the  way, 
But,  as  he  was  going,  gained  courage  to  say, — 
'•'  At  slavery  in  the  abstract  my  whole  soul  rebels, 
I  am  as  strongly  opposed  to  't  as  any  one  else." 
"Ay,  no  doubt,  but  whenever  I've  happened  to  meet 
With  a  wrong  or  a  crime,  it  is  always  concrete," 
Answered  Phoebus  severely  ;  then  turning  to  us, 
"  The  mistakes  of  such  fellows  as  just  made  the  fuss 
Is  only  in  taking  a  great  busy  nation 
For  a  part  of  their  pitiful  cotton-plantation. — 
But  there  comes  Miranda,  Zeus  !  where  shall  I  flee  to  ? 
She  has  such  a  penchant  for  bothering  me  too  ! 
She  always  keeps  asking  if  I  don't  observe  a 
Particular  likeness  'twixt  her  and  Minerva  : 
She  tells  me  my  efforts  in  verse  are  quite  clever  ; — 
She 's  been  travelling  now,  and  will  be  worse  than  ever  ; 
One  would  think,  though,  a  sharp-sighted  noter  she'd 

be 

Of  all  that 's  worth  mentioning  over  the  sea, 
For  a  woman  must  surely  see  well,  if  she  try, 
The  whole  of  whose  being 's  a  capital  I  : 
She  will  take  an  old  notion  and  make  it  her  own 
By  saying  it  o'er  in  her  Sybilline  tone, 
Or  persuade  you  't  is  something  tremendously  deep, 
By  repeating  it  so  as  to  put  you  to  sleep  j 


204  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

And  she  well  may  defy  any  mortal  to  see  through  it, 
When  once  she  has  mixed  up  her  infinite  me  through 

'it. 

There  is  one  thing  she  owns  in  her  own  single  right, 
It  is  native  and  genuine — namely,  her  spite  : 
Though,  when  acting  as  censor,  she  privately  blows 
A  censor  of  vanity  'neath  her  own  nose. " 

Here  Miranda  came  up,  and  said,  "  Phoebus  !  you 

know 

That  the  infinite  Soul  has  its  infinite  woe, 
As  I  ought  to  know,  having  lived  cheek  by  jowl, 
Since  the  day  I  was  born,  with  the  Infinite  Soul ; 
I  myself  introduced,  I  myself,  I  alone, 
To  my  Laud's  better  life  authors  solely  my  own, 
Who  the  sad  heart  of  earth  on  their  shoulders  have 

taken, 

Whose  works  sound  a  depth  by  Life's  quiet  unshaken, 
Such   as    Shakspeare,   for    instance,    the   Bible,  and 

Bacon, 

Not  to  mention  my  own  works  ;  Time's  nadir  is  fleet, 
And,  as  for  myself,  I  'm  quite  out  of  conceit,  "- 

"  Quite  out  of  conceit  !  I  'm  enchanted  to  hear  it." 
Cried  Apollo  aside,  "  Who  'd  have  thought  she  was 

near  it  ? 

To  be  sure  one  is  apt  to  exhaust  those  commodities 
He  uses  too  fast,  yet  in  this  case  as  odd  it  is 
As  if  Neptune  should  say  to  his  turbots  and  whitings, 
'  I  'm  as  much  out  of  salt  as  Miranda's  own  writings,' 
(Which,  as  she  in  her  own  happy  manner  has  said, 
Sound  a  depth,  for  't  is  one  of  the  functions  of  lead.) 
She  often  has  asked  me  if  I  could  not  find 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  205 

A  place  somewhere  near  me  that  suited  her  mind  ; 
I  know  but  a  single  one  vacant,  which  she, 
With  her  rare  talent  that  way,  would  fit  to  a  T. 
And  it  would  not  imply  any  pause  of  cessation 
In  the  work  she  esteems  her  peculiar  vocation, — 
She  may  enter  on  duty  to-day,  if  she  chooses, 
And  remain  Tiring-woman  for  life  to  the  Muses/' 

(Miranda  meanwhile  has  succeeded  in  driving 
Up  into  a  corner,  in  spite  of  their  striving, 
A  small  flock  of  terrified  victims,  and  there, 
With  an  I-turn-the-crank-of-the-Universe  air 
And  a  tone  which,  at  least  to  my  fancy,  appears 
Not  so  much  to  be  entering  as  boxing  your  ears, 
Is  unfolding  a  tale  (of  herself,  I  surmise, 
For  't  is  dotted  as  thick  as  a  peacock's  with  Fs.) 
Apropos  of  Miranda,  I  '11  rest  on  my  oars 
And  drift  through  a  trifling  digression  on  bores, 
For,  though  not  wearing  ear-rings  in  more  majorum, 
Our  ears  are  kept  bored  just  as  if  we  still  wore  'em. 
There  was  one  feudal  custom  worth  keeping,  at  least, 
Boasted  bores  made  a  part  of  each  well-ordered  feast, 
And  of  all  quiet  pleasures  the  very  ne plus 
Was  in  hunting  wild  bores  as  the  tame  ones  hunt  us. 
ArchaBologians,  I  know,  who  have  personal  fears 
Of  this  wise  application  of  hounds  and  of  spears, 
Have   tried    to    make    out,   with    a   zeal    more  than 

wonted, 

'T  was  a  kind  of  wild  swine  that  our  ancestors  hunted  ; 
But  I  '11  never  believe  that  the  age  which  has  strewn 
Europe  o'er  with  cathedrals,  and  otherwise  shown 
That   it  knew  what  was  what,   could  by  chance  not 
have  known. 


206  ±  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

(Spending,  too,  its  chief  time  with   its  buff  on,  no 

doubt,) 

Which  beast 't  would  improve  the  world  most  to  thin  out, 
I  divide  bores  myself,  in  the  manner  of  rifles, 
Into  two  great  divisions,  regardless  of  trifles  ; — 
There  's  your  smooth-bore  and  screw-bore,  who  do  not 

much  vary 

In  the  weight  of  cold  lead  they  respectively  carry. 
The  smooth-bore  is  one  in  whose  essence  the  mind 
Not  a  corner  nor  cranny  to  cling  by  can  find  ; 
You  feel  as  in  nightmares  sometimes,  when  you  slip 
Down  a  steep  slated  roof  where  there's  nothing  to  grip, 
You  slide  and  you  slide,  the  blank  horror  increases, 
You  had  rather  by  far  be  at  once  smashed  to  pieces, 
You  fancy  a  whirlpool  below  white  and  frothing, 
And  finally  drop  off  and  light  upon — nothing. 
The  screw-bore  has  twists  in  him,  faiub  predilections 
For  going  just  wrong  in  the  tritest  directions  ; 
When  he  '&  wrong  he  is  flat,  when  he  's  right  he  can't 

show  it, 

He  '11  tell  you  what  Snooks  said  about  the  new  poet,1 
Or  how  Fogrum  was  outraged  by  Tennyson's  Princess  ; 
He  has  spent  all  his  spare  time  and  intellect  since  his 
Birth  in  pernsing,  on  each  art  and  science, 
Just  the  books  in  which  no  one  puts  any  reliance, 
And  though  nemo,  we  're  told,  horis  omnibus  sapit, 
The  rule  will  not  fit  him,  however  you  shape  it, 
For  he  has  a  perennial  foison  of  sappiness  ; 
He  has  just  enough  force  to  spoil  half  your  day's  hap 
piness, 

*  If  you  call  Snooks  an  owl,  he  will  show  by  his  looks 
That  he  '»  morally  certain  you  're  jealous  of  Snooks.) 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  307 

And  to  make  him  a  sort  of  mosquito  to  be  with, 
But  just  not  enough  to  dispute  or  agree  with. 

These  sketches  I  made  (not  to  be  too  explicit) 
From  two  honest  fellows  who  made  me  a  visit, 
And  broke,  like  the  tale  of  the  Bear  and  the  Fiddle, 
My  reflections  on  Halleck  short  off  by  the  middle ; 
I  shall  not  now  go  into  the  subject  more  deeply, 
For  I  notice  that  some  of  my  readers  look  sleeply, 
I  will  barely  remark  that,  Amongst  civilized  nations, 
There  's  none  that  displays  more  exemplary  patience 
Under  all  sorts  of  boring,  at  all  sorts  of  hours, 
From  all  sorts  of  desperate  persons,  than  ours. 
Not  to  speak  of  our  papers,  our  state  legislatures, 
And  other  such  trials  for  sensitive  natures, 
Just  look  for  a  moment  at  Congress, — appalled, 
My  fancy  shrinks  back  from  the  phantom  it  called  ; 
Why,  there  's  scarcely  a  member  unworthy  to  frown 
'Neath  what  Fourier  nicknames  the  Boreal  crown  ; 
Only  think  what  that  infinite  bore-pow'r  could  do 
If  applied  with  a  utilitarian  view  ; 
Suppose,  for  example,  we  shipped  it  with  care 
To  Sahara's  great  desert  and  let  it  bore  there, 
If  they  held  one  short  session  and  did  nothing  else, 
They  'd  fill  the  whole  waste  with  Artesian  wells. 
But  't  is  time  now  with  pen  phonographic  to  follow 
Through  some  more   of   his    sketches    our   laughing 
Apollo  : — 

"  There  comes  Harry  Franco,  and,  as  he  draws  near, 
You  find  that  's  a  smile  which  you  took  for  a  sneer  ; 
One  half  of  him  contradicts  t'  other,  his  wont 
Is  to  say  very  sharp  things  and  do  very  blunt ; 


208  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

His  inaimer  's  as  hard  as  his  feelings  are  tender, 
And  a  sortie  he  '11  make  when  he  means  to  surrender ; 
He  's   in   joke  half  the    time   when  he  seems  to  be 

sternest, 

When  he  seems  to  be  joking,  be  sure  he  's  in  earnest ; 
He  has  common  sense  in  a  way  that 's  uncommon, 
Hates    humbug   and    cant,    loves    his   friends  like  a 

woman, 

Builds  his  dislikes  of  cards  and  his  friendships  of  oak, 
Loves  a  prejudice  better  than  aught  but  a  joke, 
Is  half  upright  Quaker,  half  downright  Gome-outer, 
Loves  freedom  too  well  to  go  stark  mad  about  her, 
Quite  artless  himself  is  a  lover  of  Art, 
Shuts  you  out  of  his  secrets  and  into  his  heart, 
And  though  not  a  poet,  yet  all  must  admire 
In  his  letters  of  Pinto  his  skill  on  the  liar. 

"  There   comes   Poe   with   his   raven,   like  Barnaby 

Rudge, 

Three-fifths  of  him  genius  and  two-fifths  sheer  fudge, 
Who  talks  like  a  book  of  iambs  and  pentameters, 
In  a  way  to  make  people  of  common-sense  damn  metres, 
Who  has  written  some  things  quite  the  best  of  their 

kind 
But  the  heart  somehow  seems  all  squeezed  out  by  the 

mind, 

Who — but  hey-day  !     What 's  this  ?     Messieurs   Mat 
thews  and  Poe, 

You  must  n't  fling  mud-balls  at  Longfellow  so, 
Does  it  make  a  man  worse  that  his  character  's  such 
As  to  make  his  friends  love  him  (as  you  think)  too 

much  ? 
Why,  there  is  not  a  bard  at  this  moment  alive 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  200 

More  willing  than  he  that  his  fellows  should  thrive  ; 

While  you  are  abusing  him  thus,  even  now 

He  would  help  either  one  of  you  out  of  a  slough  ; 

You  may  say  that  he  's  smooth  and  all  that  till  you  're 

hoarse, 

But  remember  that  elegance  also  is  force  ; 
After  polishing  granite  as  much  as  you  will, 
The  heart  keeps  its  tough  old  persistency  still ; 
Deduct  all  you  can  that  still  keeps  you  at  bay, — 
Why,  he  '11  live  till  men  weary  of  Collins  and  Gray  ; 
I  'm  not  over-fond  of  Greek  metres  in  English, 
To  me  rhyme  's  a  gain,  so  it  be  not  too  jinglish, 
And  your  modern  hexameter  verses  are  no  more 
Like  Greek  ones  than  sleek  Mr.  Pope  is  like  Homer ; 
As  the  roar  of  the  sea  to  the  coo  of  a  pigeon  is, 
So,  compared  to  your  moderns,  sounds  old  Melesigenes  ; 
I  may  be  too  partial,  the  reason,  perhaps,  o'  't  is 
That  I  've  heard  the  old  blind  man  recite  his  own 

rhapsodies, 

And  my  ear  with  that  music  impregnate  may  be, 
Like  the  poor  exiled  shell  with  the  soul  of  the  sea, 
Or  as  one  can't  bear  Strauss  when  his  nature  is  cloven 
To  its  deeps  within  deeps  by  the  stroke  of  Beethoven  ; 
But,  set  that  aside,  and  't  is  truth  that  I  speak, 
Had  Theocritus  written  in  English,  not  Greek, 
I  believe  that  his  exquisite  sense  would  scarce  change 

a  line 

In  that  rare,  tender,  virgin-like  pastoral  Evangeline. 
That 's  not  ancient  nor  modern,  its  place  is  apart 
Where  time  has  no  sway,  in  the  realm  of  pure  Art, 
'T   is   a  shrine   of  retreat  from   Earth's   hubbub  and 

strife 

As  quiet  and  chaste  as  the  author's  own  life. 
4 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

"  There  comes  Philothea,  her  face  all  aglow, 
She  has  just  been  dividing  some  poor  creature's  woe, 
And  can't  tell  which  pleases  her  most,  to  relieve 
His  want,  or  his  story  to  hear  and  believe  ; 
No  doubt  against  many  deep  griefs  she  prevails, 
For  her  ear  is  the  refuge  of  destitute  tales  ; 
She  knows  well  that  silence  is  sorrow's  best  food, 
And  that   talking   draws  off  from  the  heart  its   black 

blood, 

So  she  '11  listen  with  patience  and  let  you  unfold 
Your  bundle  of  rags  as  't  were  pure  cloth  of  gold, 
Which,  indeed,  it  all  turns  to  as  soon  as  she's  touched  it, 
And,  (to  borrow  a  phrase  from  the  nursery,)  muched  it, 
She  has  such  a  musical  taste,  she  will  go 
Any  distance  to  hear  one  who  draws  a  long  bow  ; 
She  will  swallow  a  wonder  by  mere  might  and  main 
And  thinks  it  geometry's  fault  if  she's  fain 
To  consider  things  flat,  inasmuch  as  they're  plain  ; 
Facts  with  her  are  accomplished,  as  Frenchmen  would 

say, 

They  will  prove  all  she  wishes  them  to — either  way, 
And,  as  fact  lies  on  this  side  or  that,  we  must  try, 
If  we're  seeking  the  truth,  to  find  where  it  don't  lie  ; 
I  was  telling  her  once  of  a  marvellous  aloe 
That  for  thousands  of  years  had  looked  spindling  and 

sallow, 

And,  though  nursed  by  the  fruitfullest  powers  of  mud, 
Had  never  vouchsafed  e'en  so  much  as  a  bud, 
Till  its  owner  remarked  as  a  sailor,  you  know, 
Often  will  in  a  calm,  that  it  never  would  blow, 
For  he  wished  to  exhibit  the  plant,  and  designed 
That  its  blowing  should  help  him  in  raising  the  wind  ; 
At  last  it  was  told  him  that  if  he  should  water 


A.  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Its  roots  with  the  Wood  of  his  unmarried  daughter, 

(Who  was  born,  as  her  mother,  a  Calvinist  said, 

With  a  Baxter's  effectual  call  on  her  head,) 

It  would  blow  as  the  obstinate  breeze  did  when  by  a 

Like  decree  of  her  father  died  Iphigenia  ; 

At  first  he  declared  he  himself  would  be  blowed 

Ere  his  conscience  with  such  a  foul  crime  he  would  load 

But    the  thought,    coming  oft,  grew   less  dark  than 

before, 

And  he  mused,  as  each  creditor  knocked  at  his  door, 
If  this  were  but  done  they  would  dun  me  no  more  ; 
I  told  Philothea  his  struggles  and  doubts, 
And  how  he  considered  the  ins  and  the  outs 
Of  the  visions   he  had,  and  the  dreadful  dyspepsy, 
How  he  went  to  the  seer  that  lives  at  Po'keepsie, 
How  the  seer  advised  him  to  sleep  on  it  first 
And  to  read  his  big  volume  in  case  of  the  worst, 
And  further  advised  he  should  pay  him  five  dollars 
For  writing  |3wm,  |Shtm,  on  his  wristbands  and  collars  ; 
Three  years  and  ten  days  these  dark  words  he  had  studied 
When  the  daughter  was  missed,and  the  aloe  had  budded  ; 
I  told  how  he  watched  it  grow  large  and  more  large, 
And  wondered  how  much  for  the  show  he  should  charge, 
She  had  listened  with  utter  indifference  to  this,  till 
I  told  how  it  bloomed,  and  discharging  its  pistil 
With  an  aim  the  Eumeuides  dictated,  shot 
The  botanical  filicide  dead  on  the  spot  ; 
It  had  blown;,  but  he  reaped  not  his  horrible  gains, 
For  it  blew  with  such  force  as  to  blow  out  his  brains, 
And  the  crime  was  blown  also,  because  on  the  wad. 
Which  was  paper,  was  writ  '  Visitation  of  God/ 
As  well  as  a  thrilling  account  of  the  deed 
Which  the  coroner  kindly  allowed  me  to  read. 


212  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

"  Well,  my  friend  took  this  story  up  just,  to  be  sure, 
Ai  one  might  a  poor  foundling  that 's  laid  at  one's  door 
She  combed  it  and  washed  it  and  clothed  it  and  fed  it, 
And  as  if 't  were  her  own  child  most  tenderly  bred  it, 
Laid  the  scene  (of  the  legend,  I  mean,)  faraway  a- 
-mong  the  green  vales  underneath  Himalaya. 
And  by  artist-like  touches,  laid  on  here  and  there, 
Made  the  whole  thing  so  touching,  I  frankly  declare 
I  have  read  it  all  thrice,  and,  perhaps  I  am  weak, 
But  I  found  every  time  there  were  tears  on  my  cheek. 

"  The  pole,  science  tells  us,  the  magnet  controls, 
But  she  is  a  magnet  to  emigrant  Poles, 
And  folks  with  a  mission  that  nobody  knows, 
Throng  thickly  about  her  as  bees  round  a  rose  ; 
She  can  fill  up  the  carets  in  such,  make  their  scope 
Converge  to  some  focus  of  rational  hope, 
And,   with   sympathies   fresh  as  the    morning,    their 

gall 

Can  transmute  into  honey, — but  this  is  not  all ; 
Not  only  for  those  she  has  solace,  oh,  say, 
Vice's  desperate  nursling  adrift  in  Broadway, 
Who  clingest,  with  all  that  is  left  of  thee  human, 
To  the  last  slender  spar  from  the  wreck  of  the  woman, 
Hast  thou  not  found  one  shore  where  those  tired  droop 
ing  feet 
Could  reach  firm  mother-earth,  one  full  heart  on  whose 

beat 

The  soothed  head  in  silence  reposing  could  hear 
The  chimes  of  far  childhood  throb  thick  on  the  ear  ? 
Ah,  there  's  many  a  beam  from  the  fountain  of  day 
That  to  reach  us  unclouded,  mast  pass,  on  its  way, 
Through  the  soul  of  a  woman,  and  hers  is  wide  op« 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  213 

To  the  influence  of  Heaven  as  the  blue  eyes  of  Hope  ; 

Yes,  a  great  soul  is  hers,  one  that  dares  to  go  in 

To  the  prison,  the  slave-hut,  the  alleys  of  sin, 

And  to  bring  into  each,  or  to  find  there,  some  line 

Of  the  never  completely  out-trampled  divine  ; 

If  her  heart  at  high  floods  swamps  her  brain  now  and 

then, 

'T  is  but  richer  for  that  when  the  tide  ebbs  agen, 
As,  after  old  Nile  has  subsided,  his  plain 
Overflows  with  a  second  broad  deluge  of  grain  ! 
What  a  wealth  would  it  bring  to  the  narrow  and  sour 
Could  they  be  as  a  Child  but  for  one  little  hour  ! 

"  What  !     Irving  ?  thrice  welcome,  warm  heart  and 

fine  brain, 

You  bring  back  the  happiest  spirit  from  Spain, 
And  the  gravest  sweet  humor,  that  ever  were  there 
Since  Cervantes  met  death  in  his  gentle  despair ; 
Nay,  don't  be  embarrassed,  nor  look  so  beseeching, — 
I  sha'n't  run  directly  against  my  own  preaching, 
And,   having    just    laughed    at    their    Kaphaels    and 

Dantes, 

Go  to  setting  you  up  beside  matchless  Cervantes  ; 
But  allow  me  to  speak  what  I  honestly  feel, — 
To  a  true  poet-heart  add  the  fun  of  Dick  Steele, 
Throw  in  all  of  Addison,  mimes  the  chill, 
With  the  whole  of  that  partnership's  stock  and  good 

will, 

Mix  well,  and  while  stirring,  hum  o'er,  as  a  spell, 
The  fine  old  English  Gentleman,  simmer  it  well, 
Sweeten  just  to  your  own  private  liking,  then  strain, 
That  only  the  finest  and  clearest  remain, 
Let  it  stand  out  of  doors  till  a  soul  it  receives 


214:  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

From  the  warm  lazy  sun  loitering  down  through  green 
leaves, 

And  you'll  find  a  choice  nature,  not  wholly  deserv 
ing 

A  name  either  English  or  Yankee, — just  Irving. 

"There  goes, — but  stet  nominis  umbra, — his  name 
Yon  '11  be  glad  enough,  some  day  or  other,  to  claim, 
And  will  all  crowd  about  him  and  swear  that  you  knew 

him 
If  some  English  hack-critic  should  chance  to  review 

him  ; 

The  old  porcos  ante  ne  projiciatis 
MARGARITAS,  for  him  you  have  verified  gratis  ; 
What  matters  his  name  ?     Why,  it  may  be  Sylvester, 
Judd,  Junior,  or  Junius,  Ulysses,  or  Nestor, 
For  aught  /  know  or  care  ;  Jt  is  enough  that  I  look 
On  the  author  of  '  Margaret/  the  first  Yankee  book 
With  the  soul  of  Down  East  in  't,  and  things  farther 

East, 

As  far  as  the  threshold  of  morning,  at  least, 
Where  awaits  the  fair  dawn  of  the  simple  and  true, 
Of  the  day  that  comes  slowly  to  make  all  things  new. 
'T  has  a  smack  of  pine  woods,  of  bare  field  and  bleak 

hill 

Such  as  only  the  breed  of  the  Mayflower  could  till. 
The  Puritan  's  shown  in  it,  tough  to  the  core, 
Such  as  prayed,  smiting  Agag  on  red  Mars  ton  moor  ; 
With  an  unwilling  humor,  half-choked  by  the  drouth 
In  brown  hollows  about  the  inhospitable  mouth  ; 
With  a  soul  full  of  poetry,  though  it  has  qualms 
About  finding  a  happiness  out  of  the  Psalms  ; 
Full  of  tenderness,  too,  though  it  shrinks  in  the  dark, 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  215 

Hamadryad-like,  under  the  coarse,  shaggy  bark  ; 
That  sees  visions,  knows  wrestlings  of  God  with  the 

Will, 
And  has  its  own  Sinais  and  thnnderings  still/' — 

Here, — "  Forgive  me,    Apollo/'   I    cried,    "  while  I 

pour 
My  heart  out  to  my  birth-place  :     0,  loved  more  and 

more 

Dear  Baystate,  from  whose  rocky  bosom  thy  sons 
Should  suck   milk,  strong-will-giving,  brave   such  as 

runs 

In  the  veins  of  old  Graylock, — who  is  it  that  dares 
Call  thee  pedler,  a  soul  wrapt  in  bank-books  and  shares  ? 
It  is  false  !     She's  a  Poet !  I  see,  as  I  write, 
Along  the  far  railroad  the  steam -snake  glide  white, 
The  cataract-throb  of  her  mill-hearts  I  hear, 
The  swift  strokes  of  trip-hammers  weary  my  ear, 
Sledges  ring  upon  anvils,  through  logs  the  saw  screams, 
Blocks  swing  up  to  their  place,  beetles  drive  home  the 

beams  : — 

It  is  songs  such  as  these  that  she  croons  to  the  din 
Of  her  fast-flying  shuttles,  year  out  and  year  in, 
While  from  earth's  farthest  corner  there  comes  not  a 

breeze 

But  wafts  her  the  buzz  of  her  gold-gleaning  bees  : 
What  though  those  horn  hands  have  as  yet  found  small 

time 

For  painting  and  sculpture  and  music  and  rhyme  ? 
These  will  come  in  due  order,  the  need  that  pressed 

sorest 

Was  to  vanquish  the  seasons,  the  ocean,  the  forest, 
To  bridle  and  harness  the  rivers,  the  steam, 


216  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

Making  that  whirl  her   mill-wheels,    this   tug  in   her 

team, 

To  vassalize  old  tyrant  Winter,  and  make 
Him  delve  surlily  for  her  on  river  and  lako  ; — 
When  this  New  World  was  parted,  she  strove  not  to 

shirk 

Her  lot  in  the  heirdom,  the  tongh,  silent  Work, 
The  hero-share  ever,  from  Herakles  down 
To  Odin,  the  Earth's  iron  sceptre  and  crown  ; 
Yes,  thou  dear,  noble  Mother  !  if  ever  men's  praise 
Could  be  claimed  for  creating  heroical  lays, 
Thou  hast  won  it  ;  if  ever  the  laurel  divine 
Crowned  the  Maker  and  Builder,  that  glory  is  thine  ! 
Thy  songs  are  right  epic,  they  tell  how  this  rude 
Rock-rib  of  our  earth  here  was  tamed  and  subdued  ; 
Thou   hast   written    them    plain    on    the  face  of  the 

planet 

In  brave,  deathless  letters  of  iron  and  granite  ; 
Thou  hast  printed  them  deep  for  all  time ;  they  are 

set 

From  the  same  runic  type-fount  and  alphabet 
With  thy  stout   Berkshire  hills  and  the  arms  of  thy 

Bay,- 

They  are  staves  from  the  burly  old  Mayflower  lay. 
If  the  drones  of  the  Old  World,  in  querulous  ease, 
Ask  thy  Art  and  thy  Letters,  point  proudly  to  these, 
Or,  if  they  deny  these  are  Letters  and  Art, 
Toil  on  with  the  same  old  invincible  heart ; 
Thou  art  rearing  the  pedestal  broad-based  and  grand 
Whereon  the  fair  shapes  of  the  Artist  shall  stand, 
And  creating,  through  labors  undaunted  and  long, 
The  true  theme  for  all  Sculpture   and  Painting  and 

Song  ! 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  217 

"  But  my  good  mother  Baystate  wants  no  praise  of 

mine, 

She  learned  from  her  mother  a  precept  divine 
About  something  that  butters  no  parsnips,  her  forte 
In  another  direction  lies,  work  is  her  sport, 
(Though  she  '11  curtsey  and  set  her  cap  straight,  that 

she  will, 

If  you  talk  about  Plymouth  and  one  Bunker's  hill.) 
The  dear,  notable  goodwife  !  by  this  time  of  night, 
Her  hearth  is  swept  clean,  and  her  fire  burning  bright, 
And  she  sits  in  a  chair  (of  home  plan  and  make)  rock 
ing, 

Musing  much,  all  the  while,  as  she  darns  on  a  stock 
ing. 

Whether  turkeys  will  come  pretty  high  next  Thanks 
giving, 
Whether   flour  11  be  so  dear,    for  as  sure  as   she  's 

living, 

She  will  use  rye-and-injun  then,  whether  the  pig 
By  this  time  ain't  got  pretty  tolerable  big, 
And  whether  to  sell  it  outright  will  be  best. 
Or  to  smoke  hams  and  shoulders  and  salt  down  the 

rest, — 

At  this  minute,  she'd  swop  all  my  verses,  ah,  cruel  ! 
For  the  last  patent  stove  that  is  saving  of  fuel ; 
So  I'll  just  let  Apollo  go  on,  for  his  phiz 
Shows  I've  kept  him  awaiting  too  long  as  it  is." 

"  If  our  friend,   there,   who  seems  a  reporter,   is 

through 

With  his  burst  of  emotion,  our  theme  we  '11  pursue/' 
Said  Apollo  :  some  smiled,  and,  indeed,  I  must  own 
There  was  something  sarcastic,  perhaps,  in  his  tone  ;•— 


218  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

"  There  '&  Holmes,  who  is  matchless  among  you  for 

wit ; 

A  Leyden-jar  always  full-charged,  from  which  flit 
The  electrical  tingles  of  hit  after  hit  ; 
In  long  poems  Jt  is  painful  sometimes  and  invites 
A  thought  of  the  way  the  new  Telegraph  writes, 
Which  pricks  down  its  little  sharp  sentences  spitefully 
As  if  you  got  more  than  you  'd  title  to  rightfully, 
And  if  it  were  hoping  its  wild  father  Lightning 
Would  flame  in  for  a  second  and  give  you  a  fright'ning. 
He  has  perfect  sway  of  what  7  call  a  sham  metre. 
But  many  admire  it,  the  English  hexameter, 
And  Campbell,  I  think,  wrote  most  commonly  worse,  - 
With  less  nerve,  swing,  and  fire  in  the  same  kind  of  verse, 
Nor  e'er  achieved  aught  in  't  so  worthy  of  praise 
As  the  tribute  of  Holmes  to  the  grand  Marseillaise. 
You  went  crazy  last  year  over  Bulwer's  New  Timon  ; — 
Why,  if  B.,  to  the  day  of  his  dying,  should  rhyme  on, 
Heaping  verses  on  verses  and  tomes  upon  tomes, 
He  could  ne'er    react    the  best   point  and  vigor  of 

Holmes. 

His  are  just  the  fine  hands,  too,  to  weave  you  a  lyric 
Full  of  fancy,  fun,  feeling,  or  spiced  with  satiric 
In  so  kindly  a  measure,  that  nobody  knows 
What  to  do  but  e'en  join  in  the  laugh,  friends  and  foes. 

"  There  is  Lowell,  who 's  striving  Parnassus  to  climb 
With  a  whole  bale  of  isms  tied  together  with  rhyme, 
He  might  get  on  alone,  spite  of  brambles  and  boulders, 
But  he  can't  with  that  bundle  he  has  on  his  shoulders, 
The  top  of  the  hill  he  will  ne'er  come  nigh  reaching 
Till  he  learns  the  distinction  'twixt  singing  and  preach 
ing  ; 


A  FABLE  FOE  THE  CRITICS.  219 

His  lyre  has  some  chords  that  would  ring  pretty  well, 
But  he  'd  rather  by  half  make  a  drum  of  the  shell, 
And  rattle  away  till  he  's  old  as  Methusalem, 
At  the  head  of  a  march  to  the  last  new  Jerusalem. 

"  There  goes  Halleck  whose  Fanny  's  a  psendo  Don 

Juan, 

With  the  wickedness  out  that  gave  salt  to  the  true  one, 
He  's  a  wit,  though,  I  hear,  of  the  very  first  order, 
And  once  made  a  pun  on  the  words  soft  Eecorder  ; 
More  than  this,  he  's  a  very  great  poet,  I  'm  told, 
And  has  had  his  works  published  in  crimson  and  gold, 
With  something  they  call  '  Illustrations/  to  wit, 
Like  those  with  which  Chapman  obscured  Holy  Writ,1 
Which  are  said  to  illustrate,  bec'ause,  as  I  view  it, 
Like  lucus  a  non,  they  precisely  don't  do  it ; 
Let  a  man  who  can  write  what  himself  understands 
Keep  clear,  if  he  can,  of  designing  men's  hands, 
Who  bury  the  sense,  if  there  's  any  worth  having, 
And  then  very  honestly  call  it  engraving. 
But,  to  quit  badinage,  which  there  is  n't  much  wit  in, 
No  doubt  Halleck  's  better  than  all  he  has  written  ; 
In  his  verse  a  clear  glimpse  you  will  frequently  find, 
If  not  of  a  great,  of  a  fortunate  mind, 
Which  contrives  to  be  true  to  its  natural  loves 
In  a  world  of  back-offices,  ledgers  and  stoves. 
When  his  heart  breaks  away  from  the  brokers  and  banks, 
And  kneels  in  its  own  private  shrine  to  give  thanks, 
There  's  a  genial  manliness  in  him  that  earns 
Our  sincerest  respect,  (read,  for  instance,  his  "  Burns  ") 
And  we  can't  but  regret  (seek  excuse  where  we  may) 
That  so  much  of  a  man  has  been  peddled  away. 

^Cuts  rightly  called  wooden,  as  all  must, admit.) 


220  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

"  But     what  's   that  ?   a  mass-meeting  ?    No,  thera 

come  in  lots 

The  American  Disraelis,  Bulvvers,  and  Scotts, 
And  in  short  the  American  everything-elses, 
Each  charging  the  others  with  envies  and  jealousies  ; — 
By  the  way,  't  is  a  fact  that  displays  what  profusions 
Of  all  kinds  of  greatness  bless  free  institutions, 
That  while  the  Old  World  has  produced  barely  eight 
Of  such  poets  as  all  men  agree  to  call  great, 
And  of  other  great  characters  hardly  a  score, 
(One  might  safely  say  less  than  that  rather  than  more.) 
With  you  every  year  a  whole  crop  is  begotten, 
They  're  as  much  of  a  staple  as  corn,  or  as  cotton  ; 
Why,  there's  scarcely  a  huddle  of  log-huts  and  shanties 
That  has  not  brought  forth  its  own  Miltons  and  Dantes  ; 
I  myself  know  ten  Byrons,  one  Coleridge,  three  Shelleys, 
Two  Raphaels,  six  Titians,  (I  think)  one  Apelles, 
Leonardos  and  Rubenses  plenty  as  lichens, 
One  (but  that  one  is  plenty)  American  Dickens, 
A  whole  flock  of  Lambs,  any  number  of  Tennysons, — 
In  short,  if  a  man  has  the  luck  to  have  any  sons, 
He  may  feel  pretty  certain  that  one  out  of  twain 
Will  be  some  very  great  person  over  again. 
There  is  one  inconvenience  in  all  this  which  lies 
In  the  fact  that  by  contrast  we  estimate  size,1 
And,  when  there  are  none  except  Titans,  great  stature 
Is  only  a  simple  proceeding  of  nature. 
What  puff  the  strained  sails  of  your  praise  shall  yo» 

furl  at,  if 

1  That  is  in  most  cases  we  do,  but  not  all, 
Past  a  doubt,  there  are  men  who  are  innately  small, 
Such  as  Blank,  who,  without  being  'minished  a  tittle, 
Might  stand  for  a  type  of  the  Absolute  Little. 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  221 

The  calmest  degree  that  yon  know  is  superlative  ? 
At  Rome,  all  whom  Charon  took  into  his  wherry  must, 
As  a  matter  of  course,  be  well  issimused.  and  errimused., 
A  Greek,  too,  could  feel,  while  in  that  famous  boat  he 

tost, 
That  his  friends  would  take  care  lie  was  temped  and 


And  formerly  we,  as  through  grave-yards  we  past, 
Thought  the  world  went  from  bad  to  worse  fearfully 

fast; 
Let  us    glance  for  a  moment,  't  is   well    worth    the 

pains, 

And  note  what  an  average  grave-yard  contains  ; 
There  lie  levellers  levelled,  duns  done  up  themselves, 
There  are  booksellers  finally  laid  on  their  shelves, 
Horizontally  there  lie  upright  politicians, 
Dose-a-dose  with   their    patients   sleep   faultless   phy 

sicians, 

There  are  slave-drivers  quietly  whipt  under-ground, 
There    book-binders,     done    up   in    boards,  are     fast 

bound, 

There  card-players  wait  till  the  last  trump  be  played, 
There  all  the  choice  spirits  get  finally  laid, 
There  the   babe  that  's    unborn   is   supplied  with  a 

berth, 

There  men  without  legs  get  their  six  feet  of  earth, 
There  lawyers  repose,  each  wrapt  up  in  his  case, 
There  seekers  of  office  are  sure  of  a  place, 
There  defendant  and  plaintiff  get  equally  cast, 
There  shoemakers  quietly  stick  to  the  last, 
There  brokers  at  length  become  silent  as  stocks, 
There  stage-drivers  sleep  without  quitting  their  box, 
And  so  forth  and  so  forth  and  so  forth  and  so  on, 


222  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

With  this  kind  of  stuff  one  might  endlessly  go  on  ; 

To  come  to  the  point,  I  may  safely  assert  you 

Will  find  in  each  yard  every  cardinal  virtue  ; ' 

Each   has    six    truest    patriots :    four   discoverers    of 

ether, 
Who    never   had    thought    on   't    nor   mentioned    it 

either  : 

Ten  poets,  the  greatest  who  ever  wrote  rhyme  : 
Two  hundred  and  forty  first  men  of  their  time  : 
One  person  whose  portrait  just  gave  the  least  hint 
Its  original  had  a  most  horrible  squint  : 
One  critic,  most  (what  do  they  call  it  ?)  reflective, 
Who  never  had  used  the  phrase  ob-  or  subjective  : 
Forty  fathers  of  Freedom,  of  whom  twenty  bred 
Their  sons  for  the  rice-swamps,  at  so  much  a  head, 
And  their  daughters    for — faugh  !  thirty  mothers   of 

Gracchi  : 

Non-resistants  who  gave  many  a  spiritual  black-eye : 
Eight  true  friends  of  their  kind,  one  of  whom  was  a 

jailor  : 

Four  captains  almost  as  astounding  as  Taylor  : 
Two  dozen  of  Italy's  exiles  who  shoot  us  his 
Kaisership  daily,  stern  pen-and-ink  Brutuses, 
Who,  in  Yankee  back-parlors,  with  crucified  smile,* 
Mount  serenely  their  country's  funereal  pile  : 
Ninety-nine  Irish  heroes,  ferocious  rebellers 
'Gainst  the  Saxon  in  cis-marine  garrets  and  cellars, 
Who  shake   their  dread    fists   o'er    the   sea    and    all 

that,— 

1  (And  at  this  just  conclusion  will  surely  arrive, 

That  the  goodness  of  earth  is  more  dead  than  alire.) 

2  Not  forgetting  their  tea  and  their  toast,  though,    th« 

while. 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS.  223 

As  long  as  a  copper  drops  into  the  hat : 
Nine  hundred  Teutonic  republicans  stark 
From  Vaterland's  battles  just  won — in  the  Park, 
Who  the  happy  profession  of  martyrdom  take 
Whenever  it  gives  them  a  chance  at  a  steak  : 
Sixty-two  second  Washingtons  :  two  or  three  Jacksons  : 
And  so  many  everythings  else  that  it  racks  one's 
Poor  memory  too  much  to  continue  the  list, 
Especially  now  they  no  longer  exist ; — 
I  would  merely  observe  that  you  've  taken  to  giving 
The  puffs  that  belong  to  the  dead  to  the  living, 
And  that  somehow  your  trump-of -contemporary-doom's 

tones 
Is  tuned  after  old  dedications  and  tombstones." 

Here  the  critic  came  in  and  a  thistle  presented  * — 
From  a  frown  to  a  smile  the  god's  features  relented, 
As  he  stared  at  his  envoy,  who,  swelling  with  pride, 
To  the  god's  asking  look,  nothing  daunted,  replied, 
"You  're  surprised,  I  suppose,  I  was  absent  so  long, 
But  your  godship  respecting  the  lilies  was  wrong  ; 
I  hunted  the  garden  from  one  end  to  t'  other, 
And  got  no  reward  but  vexation  and  bother, 
Till,  tossed  out  with  weeds  in  a  corner  to  wither, 
This  one  lily  I  found  and  made  haste  to  bring  hither." 

"  Did  he  think  I  had  given  him  a  book  to  review  ? 
I  ought  to  have  known  what  the  fellow  would  do," 
Muttered  Phoebus  aside,  "for  a  thistle  will  pass 
Beyond  doubt  for  the  queen  of  all  flowers  with  an  ass  ; 
He  has  chosen  in  just  the  same  way  as  he  'd  choose 

1  Turn  back  now  to  page — goodness  only  knows  what, 
Ana  taKt>  a  'fresh  hold  on  the  thread  of  nay  plot. 


224  A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

His  specimens  out  of  the  books  he  reviews ; 
And  now,  as  this  offers  an  excellent  text, 
I  '11  give  'em  some  brief  hints  on  criticism  next." 
So,  musing  a  moment,  he  turned  to  the  crowd, 
And,  clearing  his  voice,  spoke  as  follows  aloud, — 

"  My  friends,  in  the  happier  days  of  the  muse, 
We  were  luckily  free  from  such  things  as  reviews  ; 
Then  naught  came  between  with  its  fog  to  make  clearer 
The  heart  of  the  poet  to  that  of  his  hearer  ; 
Then  the  poet  brought  heaven  to  the  people,  and  they 
Felt  that  they,  too,  were  poets  in  hearing  his  lay  ; 
Then  the  poet  was  prophet,  the  past  in  his  soul 
Pre-created  the  future,  both  parts  of  one  whole  ; 
Then  for  him  there  was  nothing  too  great  or  too  small, 
For  one  natural  deity  sanctified  all  ; 
Then  the  bard  owned  no  clipper  and  meter  of  moods 
Save  the  spirit  of  silence  that  hovers  and  broods 
O'er  the  seas  and  the  mountains,  the  rivers  and  woods  ; 
He  asked  not  earth's  verdict,  forgetting  the  clods, 
His  soul  soared  and  sang  to  an  audience  of  gods  ; 
'T  was  for  them  that  he  measured  the  thought  and  the 

line, 

And  shaped  for  their  vision  the  perfect  design, 
With  as  glorious  a  foresight,  a  balance  as  true, 
As  swung  out  the  worlds  in  the  infinite  blue ; 
Then  a  glory  and  greatness  invested  man's  heart, 
The  universal,  which  now  stands  estranged  and  apart, 
In  the  free  individual  moulded,  was  Art ; 
Then  the  forms  of  the  Artist  seemed  thrilled  with  de 
sire 

For  something,  as  yet  unattained,  fuller,  higher, 
As  once  with  her  lips,  lifted  hands,  and  eyes  listening, 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

And  her  whole  upward  soul  in  her  countenance  glisten 
ing, 

Eurydice  stood — like  a  beacon  unfired, 
Which,  once  touched  with  flame,  will  leap  heav'nward 

inspired — 

And  waited  with  answering  kindle  to  mark 
The  first  gleam  of  Orpheus  that  pained  the  red  Dark  ; 
Then  painting,  song,  sculpture,  did  more  than  relieve ' 
The  need  that  men  feel  to  create  and  believe, 
And  as,  in  all  beauty,  who  listens  with  love, 
Hears  these  words  oft  repeated — '  beyond  and  above,' 
So  these  seemed  to  be  but  the  visible  sign 
Of  the  grasp  of  the  soul  after  things  more  divine  ; 
They  were  ladders  the  Artist  erected  to  climb 
O'er  the  narrow  horizon  of  space  and  of  time, 
And  we  see  there  the   footsteps  by  which  men  had 

gained 

To  the  one  rapturous  glimpse  of  the  never-attained, 
As  shepherds  could  erst  sometimes  trace  in  the  sod 
The  last  spurning  print  of  a  sky-cleaving  god. 

"  But  now,  on  the  poet's  dis-privacied  moods 
With  do  this  and  do  that  the  pert  critic  intrudes  ; 
While  he  thinks  he  's  been  barely  fulfilling  his  duty 
To  interpret  'twixt  men  and  their  own  sense  of  beauty, 
And  has  striven,  while  others  sought  honor  or  pelf, 
To  make  his  kind  happy  as  he  was  himself, 
He  finds  he  's  been  guilty  of  horrid  offences 
In  all  kinds  of  moods,  numbers,  genders,  and  tenses  ; 
He  's  been  ob  and  subjective,  what  Kettle  calls  Pot. 
Precisely,  at  all  events,  what  he  ought  not, 
You  have  done  this,  says  one  judge ;  done  that,  »aj« 
another ; 


A  FABLE  FOR  THE  CRITICS. 

You  should  have  done  this,  grumbles  one ;  that,  sayi 

t*  other ; 

Never  mind  -what  he  touches,  one  shrieks  out  Taboo! 
And  while  he  i?.  wondering  what  he  shall  do, 
Since  each  suggests  opposite  topics  for  song, 
They  all  shout  together  you're  right !  or  you're  wrong  ! 

"  Nature  fits  all  her  children  with  something  to  do, 
He  'vho  would  write  and  can't  write,  can  surely  review, 
Can  set  up  a  small  booth  as  critic  and  sell  us  his 
Petty  conceit  and  his  pettier  jealousies  ; 
Thus  a  lawyer's  apprentice,  just  out  of  his  teens, 
Will  do  for  the  Jeffrey  of  six  magazines  ; 
Having  read  Johnson's  lives  of  the  poets  half  through, 
There  's  nothing  on  earth  he 's  not  competent  to  ; 
He  reviews  with  as  much  nonchalance  as  he  whistles, — 
He  goes  through  a  book  and  just  picks  out  the  thistles, 
It  matters  not  whether  he  blame  or  commend, 
If  he 's  bad  as  a  foe,  he 's  far  worse  as  a  friend  ; 
Let  an  author  but  write  what's  above  his  poor  scope, 
And  he  '11  go  to  work  gravely  and  twist  up  a  rope, 
And,  inviting  the  world  to  see  punishment  done, 
Hang  himself  up  to  bleach  in  the  wind  and  the  sun  ; 
'T  is  delightful  to  see,  when  a  man  comes  along 
Who  has  any  thing  in  him  peculiar  and  strong, 
Every  cockboat  that  swims  clear  its  fierce  (pop-)  gun- 
deck  at  him 
And  make  as  he  passes  its  ludicrous  Peck  at  him," — 

Here  Miranda  came  up  and  began,  "  As  to  that/'— 
Apollo  at  once  seized  his  gloves,  cane,  and  hat, 
And  seeing  the  place  getting  rapidly  cleared, 
I,  too,  snatched  my  notes  and  forthwith  disappeared. 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 


PRELUDE  TO  PART  FIRST. 

OVER  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  fingers  wander  as  they  list, 

And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for  his  lay ; 
Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved  instrument 

Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer  draws  his  theme, 
First  gnessed  by  faint  auroral  flushes  sent 

Along  the  wavering  vista  of  his  dream. 


Not  only  around  our  infancy 
Doth  heaven  with  all  its  splendors  lie  ; 
Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe  and  blot, 
We  Sinais  climb  and  know  it  not ; 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the  skies  ; 

Against  our  fallen  and  traitor  lives 
The  great  winds  utter  prophecies  ; 

"With  our  faint  hearts  the  mountain  strives; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the  druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite  ; 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

Still  shouts  the  inspiring  sea. 
Garth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us  ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 

22? 


228  THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 

The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  comes  and  shrives  ug, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in  ; 
At  the  Devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold., 
Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold  ; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 
Bubbles  we  earn  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking  ; 

'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away, 
'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking ; 
There  is  no  price  set  on  the  lavish  summer  ; 
And  June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days  ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays  : 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen. 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten  ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  grasping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers  ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys  ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there 's  never  a  leaf  or  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives  ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings  j 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  229 

He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest, — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back,  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay  ; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  so  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'T  is  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green  ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing  ;  .  ' 

The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 
That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by  ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack  ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing, — 
And  hark  !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year, 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing  ! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how ; 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving  ; 
'T  is  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue, — 

'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living  : 


230  THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 

Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake ; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache  ; 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth, 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

Like  bnrnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 
"What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow  ? 

PART  FIRST. 
I. 

"  MY  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 

And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail ; 
Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread, 
Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep  ; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew." 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 

ii. 

The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  three*, 
In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  kn««i, 
The  little  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 
The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  331 

And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees  : 

The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 

Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray  ; 

T  was  the  proudest  hall  in  the  North  Countree, 

And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be, 

Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree ; 

Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 

But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied  ; 

She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 

Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tall 

Stretched  left  and  right, 

Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight ; 

Green  and  broad  was  every  tent, 

And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 

m. 

The  drawbridge  dropped  with  a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a  charger  sprang, 
Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden  knight, 
In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed  so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had  gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had  shot  over  its  wall 

In  his  siege  of  three  hundred  summers  long, 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one  blazing  sheaf, 

Had  cast  them  forth  :  so,  young  and  strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf, 
Sir  Launfal  flashed  forth  in  his  unscarred  mail, 
To  geek  in  all  climes  for  the  Holy  Grail. 

IT. 

It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree, 
And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart ; 


232  THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 

Only  the  castle  moodily 

Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free, 

And  gloomed  by  itself  apart ; 
The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up 
Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's  cup. 

v. 

As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  darksome  gate, 

He  was  ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 
Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he  sate  ; 

And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came  ; 
The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill, 

The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  did  shrink  and  crawl, 
And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall  ; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature, 
Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn, — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 

VI. 

The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust : 
"  Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust. 
Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 
That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold ; 
He  gives  nothing  but  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty  ; 
But  he  who  gives  but  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite, — 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  233 

The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms, 

The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 

For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 

To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before." 

PRELUDE  TO  PART  SECOND. 

Down*  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak, 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old  ; 

On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 

And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek 

It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 

From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare  ; 

The  little  brook  heard  it  and  built  a  roof 

'Neath  which  he  could  house  him,  winter-proof  ; 

All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 

He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams  ; 

Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars 

As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars  : 

He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 

In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 

Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 

Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt, 

Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 

Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze  ; 

Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 

But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew  ; 

Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 

With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf  ; 

Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 

For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and  here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 

And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond  drops, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 

That  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 

And  made  a  star  of  every  one  : 

No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 

Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice  ; 

'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay 

In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day, 

Each  fleeting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky, 

Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost. 

"Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  grow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly  ; 
Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 
Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide  ; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind  ; 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind  ; 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing,  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own, 
Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL.  235 

Was — "Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless!" 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch, 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 
The  great  hall-fire,  so  cheery  and  bold, 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old, 
Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 

FABT  »BOOK». 
I. 

THERE  was  never  a  leaf  on  a  bush  or  tree, 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly  ; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  frost's  swift  shuttles  its  shroud  had  spnn  : 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun  ; 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

n. 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate, 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate ; 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  crosi, 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he  wore, 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 


236  THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 

III. 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 

Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air, 

For  it  was  jusb  at  the  Christmas  time ; 

So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 

And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 

In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago ; 

He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 

O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small, 

Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till,  one  by  one, 

He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 

As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 

To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 

The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade, 

And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played, 

And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

IV. 

"  For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms  ; " — 

The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 

But  Sir  Launfal  sees  naught  save  the  grewsome  thing, 

The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 

That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 

And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 

In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 

T. 

And  Sir  Launfal  said, — "  I  behold  in  the« 

An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree ; 

Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns, — 

Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and  scorns, — 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 

The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side  : 
Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me  ; 
Bihold,  through  him,  I  give  to  thee  ! " 

VI. 

Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise 

He  had  flung  an  alms  to  leprosie. 
When  he  caged  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust ; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 
He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 
'T  was  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl, — 
Yet  with  fine  wh eaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed, 

And  't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty  soul. 

VII. 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place  ; 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 

But  stood  before  him  glorified, 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate, — 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 

Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

VIII. 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the  pine, 
And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brins, 


368  THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 

That  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 

With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon ; 

And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said, 

"  Lo  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid  ! 

In  many  climes,  without  avail, 

Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Behold,  it  is  here,  — this  cup  which  thou 

Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  me  hut  now  ; 

This  crust  is  my  hody  broken  for  thee, 

This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree ; 

The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 

In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need ; 

Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share, — 

For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare ; 

Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three, — 

Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

rr. 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound  : — 
"  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  ! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall, 
Let  it  be  the  spiders  banquet-hall ; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
Who  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 

X. 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 
And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall 

As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-tree  bough  ; 
No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 

The  Summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er ; 

When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door, 

She  entered  with  him  in  disguise, 


THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUNFAL. 

And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise  ; 

There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 

She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year  round ; 

The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 

Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command  ; 

And  there  'B  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 

But  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 

NOTE. — According  to  the  mythology  of  the  Romancers,  th« 
San  Greal,  or  Holy  Grail,  was  the  cup  out  of  which  Jesus  par 
took  of  the  last  supper  with  his  disciples.  It  was  brought 
into  England  by  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  and  remained  there, 
an  object  of  pilgrimage  and  adoration,  for  many  years  in  the 
keeping  of  his  lineal  descendants.  It  was  incumbent  upon 
those  who  had  charge  of  it  to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word  and 
deed  ;  but  one  of  the  keepers  having  broken  this  condition, 
the  Holy  Grail  disappeared.  From  that  time  it  was  a  favorite 
enterprise  of  the  knights  of  Arthur's  court  to  go  in  search  of 
it.  Sir  Galahad  was  at  last  successful  in  finding  it,  as  may  be 
read  in  the  seventeenth  book  of  the  Romance  of  King  Arthur. 
Tennyson  has  made  Sir  Galahad  the  subject  of  one  of  the 
most  exquisite  of  his  poems. 

The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  anything  so  slight)  of 
the  foregoing  poem  is  my  own,  and,  to  serve  its  purposes,  I 
have  enlarged  the  circle  of  competition  in  search  of  the  mirac 
ulous  cup  in  such  a  manner  as  to  include,  not  only  other 
persons  than  the  heroes  of  the  Round  Table,  but  also  a  period 
of  time  subsequent  to  the  date  of  King  Arthur's  reign. 


APPLEDORE. 

How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm  ? 

I  have  seen  it  when  its  crags  seemed  frantic, 
Butting  against  the  maddened  Atlantic, 

When  surge  after  surge  would  heap  enorme, 
Cliffs  of  Emerald  topped  with  snow, 
That  lifted  and  lifted  and  then  let  go 

A  great  white  avalanche  of  thunder, 
A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 

Monadnock  might  have  trembled  under  ; 

And  the  island,  whose  rock-roots  pierce  below 
To  where  they  are  warmed  with  the  central  fire, 

You  could  feel  its  granite  fibres  racked, 

As  it  seemed  to  plunge  with  a  shudder  and  thrill 
Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping  hill, 

And  to  rise  again,  snorting  a  cataract 

Of  rage-froth  from  every  cranny  and  ledge, 

While  the  sea  drew  its  breath  in  hoarse  and  deep, 

And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its  edge, 
Gathering  itself  for  a  mighty  leap. 

North,  east,  and  south  there  are  reefs  and  breakers, 
You  would  never  dream  of  in  smooth  weather, 

That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres, 

Bellowing  and  gnashing  and  snarling  together ; 

Look  northward  where  Duck  Island  lies, 

And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise, 

Against  a  background  of  slaty  ski»s, 
240 


APPLEDORE. 

A  row  of  pillars  still  and  white 

That  glimmer  and  then  are  out  of  sight, 
As  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss, 

While  you  crossed  the  dusty  desert  by  night, 
The  long  colonnades  of  Persepolis, 
And  then  as  sudden  a  darkness  should  follow 
To  gulp  the  whole  scene  at  a  single  swallow, 
The  city's  ghost,  the  drear  brown  waste, 
And  the  string  of  camels,  clumsy-paced  : — 
Look  southward  for  White  Island  light, 

The  lantern  stands  ninety  feet  o'er  the  tide ; 
There  is  first  a  half-mile  of  tumult  and  fight, 
Of  dash  and  roar  and  tumble  and  fright, 

And  surging  bewilderment  wild  and  wide, 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and  right, 

Then  a  mile  or  more  of  rushing  sea, 
And  then  the  light-house  slim  and  lone  ; 
And  whenever  the  whole  weight  of  ocean  is  thrown 
Full  and  fair  on  White  Island  head, 

A  great  mist-jotun  you  will  see 

Lifting  himself  up  silently 
High  and  huge  o'er  the  light-house  top, 
With  hands  of  wavering  spray  outspread, 

Groping  after  the  little  tower, 

That  seems  to  shrink,  and  shorten  and  cower, 
Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a  sudden  drop, 

And  silently  and  fruitlessly 

He  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

You,  meanwhile,  where  drenched  you  stand, 

Awaken  once  more  to  the  rush  and  roar 
And  on  the  rock-point  tighten  your  hand, 

A»  you  turn  and  see  a  valley  deep, 
16 


TO  THE  DANDELION. 

That  was  not  there  a  moment  before, 
Suck  rattling  down  between  you  and  a  h«ap 

Of  toppling  billow,  whose  instant  fall 

Must  sink  the  whole  island  once  for  all — 
Or  watch  the  silenter,  stealthier  seas 

Feeling  their  way  to  you  more  and  more  ; 
If  they  once  should  clutch  you  high  as  the  knees 
They  would  whirl  you  down  like  a  sprig  of  kelp, 
Beyond  all  reach  of  hope  or  help  ; — 

And  iuch  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 


TO  THE  DANDELION. 

DEAR  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmless  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold, 
High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth — thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  Summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease  ; 
'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
Tht  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eje. 


TO  THE  DANDELION.  243 

Thou  art  ray  tropics  and  mine  Italy  ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks  a  warmer  clime  ; 

The  eyes  thou  givest  me 

Are  in  the  heart  and  heed  not  space  or  time : 
Not  in  mid  June  the  golden- cuirassed  bee 
Feels  a  more  Summer-like,  warm  ravishment 

In  the  white  lily's  breezy  tent, 
His  fragrant  Sybaris,  than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  in  the  grass, — 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 

Where,  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, — 
Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind, — of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap, — and  of  a  sky  above 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thee  ; 

The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 
And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 
With  news  from  Heaven,  which  he  could  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When  birds  and  flowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

Thou  art  the  type  of  those  meek  charities 
Which  make  up  half  the  nobleness  of  life, 

Those  cheap  delights  the  wise 
Pluck  from  the  dusty  wayside  of  earth's  strife  -} 


244  TO  THE  DANDELION. 

Words  of  frank  cheer,  glances  of  friendly  eyes, 
Love's  smallest  coin,  which  yet  to  some  may  give 

The  morsel  that  may  keep  alive 
A  starving  heart,  and  teach  it  to  behold 
Some  glimpse  of  God  where  all  before  was  cold. 

Thy  winged  seeds,  whereof  the  winds  take  care, 
Are  like  the  words  of  poet  and  of  sage 

Which  through  the  free  heaven  fare, 
And,  now  unheeded,  in  another  age 
Take  root,  and  to  the  gladdened  future  bear 
That  witness  which  the  present  would  not  heed, 

Bringing  forth  many  a  thought  and  deed, 
And,  planted  safely  in  the  eternal  sky, 
Bloom  into  stars  which  earth  is  guided  by. 

Full  of  deep  love  thou  art,  yet  not  more  full 
Than  all  thy  common  brethren  of  the  ground, 

Wherein,  were  we  not  dull, 
Some  words  of  highest  wisdom  might  be  found ; 
Yet  earnest  faith  from  day  to  day  may  cull 
Some  syllables,  which,  rightly  joined,  can  make 

A  spell  to  soothe  life's  bitterest  ache, 
And  ope  Heaven's  portals,  which  are  near  us  still, 
Yea,  nearer  ever  than  the  gates  of  111. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art  I 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 
Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  Heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 


DARA.  245 

And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 

But  let  me  read  thy  lesson  right  or  no, 

Of  one  good  gift  from  thee  my  heart  is  sure  ; 

Old  I  shall  never  grow 

While  thou  each  year  dost  come  to  keep  me  pure 
With  legends  ~f  -ny  childhood  ;  ah,  we  owe 
Well  more  than  h  If  life's  holiness  to  these 

Nature's  first  lowly  influences, 

At  thought  of  which  the  heart's  glad  doors  burst  ope, 
In  dreariest  days,  to  welcome  peace  and  hope. 


DARA. 

WHEN"  Persia's  sceptre  trembled  in  a  hand 
Wilted  by  harem-heats,  and  all  the  land 

Was  hovered  over  by  those  vulture  ills 
That  snuff  decaying  empire  from  afar, 
Tlnn,  with  a  nature  balanced  as  a  star, 

Dara  arose,  a  shepherd  of  the  hills. 

He,  who  had  governed  fleecy  subjects  well, 
Made  his  own  vn  age,  by  the  self -same  spell, 

Secure  and  peaceful  as  a  guarded  fold, 
Till,  gathering  strength  by  slow  and  wise  degrees, 
Under  his  sway,  to  neighbor  villages 

Order  returned,  and  faith  and  justice  old. 

Now,  when  it  fortuned  that  a  king  more  wise 
Endued  the  realm  with  brain  and  hands  and  eyes, 


246  DARA. 

He  sought  on  every  side  men  brave  and  just, 
And  having  heard  the  mountain-shepherd's  praise, 
How  he  rendered  the  mould  of  elder  days, 

To  Dara  gave  a  satrapy  in  trust. 

So  Dara  shepherded  a  province  wide, 

Nor  in  his  viceroy's  sceptre  took  more  pride 

Than  in  his  crook  before  ;  but  Envy  finds 
More  soil  in  cities  than  on  mountains  bare, 
And  the  frank  sun  of  spirits  clear  and  rare 

Breeds  poisonous  fogs  in  low  and  marish  minds. 

Soon  it  was  whispered  at  the  royal  ear 

That,  though  wise  Dara's  province,  year  by  year, 

Like  a  great  sponge,  drew  wealth  and  plenty  up, 
Yet,  when  he  squeezed  it  at  the  king's  behest, 
Some  golden  drops,  more  rich  than  all  the  rest, 

Went  to  the  filling  of  his  private  cup. 

For  proof,  they  said  that  wheresoe'er  he  went 
A  chest,  beneath  whose  weight  the  camel  bent, 

Went  guarded,  and  no  other  eye  had  seen 
What  was  therein,  save  only  Dara's  own, 
Yet,  when  't  was  opened  all  his  tent  was  known 

To  glow  and  lighten  with  heapt  jewels'  sheen. 

The  king  set  forth  for  Dara's  province  straight, 
Where,  as  was  fit,  outside  his  city's  gate 

The  viceroy  met  him  with  a  stately  train  ; 
And  there,  with  archers  circled,  close  at  hand, 
A  camel  with  the  chest  was  seen  to  stand, 

The  king  grew  red,  for  thus  the  guilt  was  plain. 

"  Open  me  now,"  he  cried,  "yon  treasure-chest !" 
'T  was  done,  and  only  a  worn  shepherd's  vest 


TO  J.  F.  H.  247 

Was  found  within  ;  some  blushed  and  hung  the  head, 
Not  Dara  ;  open  as  the  sky's  blue  roof 
He  stood,  and  "  0,  my  lord,  behold  the  proof 

That  I  was  worthy  of  my  trust  !  "  he  said. 

"  For  ruling  men,  lo  !  all  the  charm  I  had  ; 
My  soul,  in  those  coarse  vestments  ever  clad, 

Still  to  the  unstained  past  kept  true  and  leal, 
Still  on  these  plains  could  breathe  her  mountain  air, 
And  Fortune's  heaviest  gifts  serenely  bear, 

Which  bend  men  from  the  truth,  and  make  them 
reel. 

"  To  govern  wisely  I  had  shown  small  skill 
Were  I  not  lord  of  simple  Dara  still ; 

That  sceptre  kept,  I  cannot  lose  my  way  ! " 
Strange  dew  in  royal  eyes  grew  round  and  bright 
And  thrilled  the  trembling  lids  ;  before  't  was  night 

Two  added  provinces  blessed  Dara's  sway. 


TO  J.  F.  H. 

NINE  years  have  slipped  like  hour-glass  sand 

From  life's  fast-emptying  globe  away, 
Since  last,  dear  friend,  I  clasped  your  hand, 
And  lingered  on  the  impoverished  land, 
Watching  the  steamer  down  the  bay. 

I  held  the  keepsake  which  you  gave, 

Until  the  dim  smoke-pennon  curled 
O'er  the  vague  rim  'tween  sky  and  wave, 
And  closed  the  distance  like  a  grave, 
Leaving  me  to  the  ovter  world  ; 


24:8  TO  J.  F.  H. 

The  old  worn  world  of  hurry  and  heat, 

The  young,  fresh  world  of  thought  and  scope ; 
While  you,  where  silent  surges  fleet 
Toward  far  sky  beaches  still  and  sweet, 
Sunk  wavering  down  the  ocean-slope. 

Come  back  our  ancient  walks  to  tread, 

Old  haunts  of  lost  or  scattered  friends, 
Amid  the  Muses'  factories  red, 
Where  song,  and  smoke,  and  laughter  sped 
The  nights  to  proctor-hunted  ends. 

Our  old  familiars  are  not  laid, 

Though  snapped  our  wands  and  sunk  our  books, 
They  beckon,  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
Where,  round  broad  meads  which  mowers  wade, 

Smooth  Charles  his  steel-blue  sickle  crooks  ; 

Where,  as  the  cloudbergs  eastward  blow, 
From  glow  to  gloom  the  hillside  shifts 

Its  lakes  of  rye  that  surge  and  flow, 

Its  plumps  of  orchard-trees  arow, 

Its  snowy  white-weed's  summer  drifts. 

Or  let  us  to  Nantasket,  there 

To  wander  idly  as  we  list, 
Whether,  on  rocky  hillocks  bare, 
Sharp  cedar-points,  like  breakers,  tear 

The  trailing  fringes  of  gray  mist. 

Or  whether,  under  skies  clear-blown, 
The  heightening  surfs  with  foamy  din, 

Their  breeze-caught  forelocks  backward  blown 

Against  old  Neptune's  yellow  zone, 
Curl  slow,  and  plunge  forever  in. 


PROMETHEUS. 

For  years  thrice  three,  wise  Horace  said, 

A  poem  rare  let  silence  bind  ; 
And  love  may  ripen  in  the  shade, 
Like  ours,  for  nine  long  seasons  laid 
In  crypts  and  arches  of  the  mind. 

That  right  Falernian  friendship  old 

Will  we,  to  grace  our  feast,  call  up, 
And  freely  pour  the  juice  of  gold, 
That  keeps  life's  pulses  warm  and  bold, 
Till  Death  shall  break  the  empty  cup. 


PKOMETHEUS. 

ONE  after  one  the  stars  have  risen  and  set, 
Sparkling  upon  the  hoarfrost  on  my  chain  : 
The  Bear  that  prowled  all  night  about  the  fold 
Of  the  North-Star,  hath  shrunk  into  his  den, 
Scared  by  the  blithesome   footsteps  of  the  Dawn, 
Whose  blushing  smile  floods  all  the  Orient ; 
And  now  bright  Lucifer  grows  less  and  less, 
Into  the  heaven's  blue  quiet  deep  withdrawn. 
Sunless  and  starless  all,  the  desert  sky 
Arches  above  me,  empty  as  this  heart 
For  ages  hath  been  empty  of  all  joy 
Except  to  brood  upon  its  silent  hope, 
As  o'er  its  hope  of  day  the  sky  doth  now. 
All  night  have  I  heard  voices  :  deeper  yet 
The  deep,  low  breathing  of  the  silence  grew, 
While  all  about,  muffled  in  awe,  there  stood 
Shadows,  or  forms,  or  both,  clear-felt  at  heart ; 
But,  when  I  turned  to  front  them,  far  along 
Only  a  shudder  through  the  midnight  ran. 


250  PROMETHEUS. 

And  the  dense  stillness  walled  me  closer  round ; 

But  still  I  heard  them  wander  up  and  down 

That  solitude,  and  flappings  of  dusk  wings 

Did  mingle  with  them,  whether  of  those  hags 

Let  slip  upon  me  once  from  Hades  deep, 

Or  of  yet  direr  torments,  if  such  be, 

I  could  but  guess  ;  and  then  toward  me  came 

A  shape  as  of  a  woman  :  very  pale 

It  was,  and  calm  ;  its  cold  eyes  did  not  more, 

And  mine  moved  not,  but  only  stared  on  them. 

Their  moveless  awe  went  through  my  brain  like  ice ; 

A  skeleton  hand  seemed  clutching  at  my  heart, 

And  a  sharp  chill,  as  if  a  dank  night  fog 

Suddenly  closed  me  in,  was  all  I  felt : 

And  then,  methought,  I  heard  a  freezing  sigh, 

A  long,  deep,  shivering  sigh,  as  from  blue  lips 

Stiffening  in  death,  close  to  mine  ear.     I  thought 

Some  doom  was  close  upon  me,  and  I  looked 

And  saw  the  red  moon  through  the  heavy  mist, 

Just  setting,  and  it  seemed  as  it  were  falling, 

Or  reeling  to  its  fall,  so  dim  and  dead 

And  palsy-struck  it  looked.     Then  all  sounds  merged 

Into  the  rising  surges  of  the  pines, 

Which,  leagues  below  me,  clothing  the  gaunt  loins 

Of  ancient  Caucasus  with  hairy  strength, 

Sent  up  a  murmur  in  the  morning-wind, 

Sad  as  the  wail  that  from  the  populous  earth 

All  day  and  night  to  high  Olympus  soars, 

Fit  incense  to  thy  wicked  throne,  0  Jove. 

Thy  hated  name  is  tossed  once  more  in  scorn 

From  off  my  lips,  for  I  will  tell  thy  doom. 

And  are  these  tears  ?    Nay,  do  not  triumph,  Jove  I 


PROMETHEUS.  251 

They  are  wrung  from  me  but  by  the  agonies 

Of  prophecy,  like  those  sparse  drops  which  fall 

From  clouds  in  travail  of  the  lightning,  when 

The  great  wave  of  the  storm,  high-curled  and  black, 

Rolls  steadily  onward  to  its  thunderous  break. ' 

"Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou  poor  type 

Of  anger,  and  revenge,  and  cunning  force  ? 

True  Power  was  never  born  of  brutish  Strength, 

Nor  sweet  Truth  suckled  at  the  shaggy  dugs 

Of  that  old  she-wolf.     Are  thy  thunderbolts, 

That  scare  the  darkness  for  a  space,  so  strong 

As  the  prevailing  patience  of  meek  Light, 

Who,  with  the  invincible  tenderness  of  peace, 

Wins  it  to  be  a  portion  of  herself  ? 

Why  art  thou  made  a  god  of,  thou,  who  hast 

The  never-sleeping  terror  at  thy  heart, 

That  birthright  of  all  tyrants,  worse  to  bear 

Than  this  thy  ravening  bird  on  which  I  smile  ? 

Thou  swear'st  to  free  me,  if  I  will  unfold 

What  kind  of  doom  it  is  whose  omen  flits 

Across  thy  heart,  as  o'er  a  troop  of  doves 

The  fearful  shadow  of  the  kite.     What  need 

To  know  that  truth  whose  knowledge  cannot  save  ? 

Evil  its  errand  hath,  as  well  as  Good ; 

When  thine  is  finished,  thou  art  known  no  more  : 

There  is  a  higher  purity  than  thou, 

And  higher  purity  is  greater  strength  ; 

Thy  nature  is  thy  doom,  at  which  thy  heart 

Trembles  behind  the  thick  wall  of  thy  might. 

Let  man  but  hope,  and  thou  art  straightway  chilled 

With  thought  of  that  drear  silence  and  deep  night 

Which,  like  a  dream,  shall  swallow  thee  and  thine .: 

Let  man  but  will,  and  thou  art  god  no  more  ; 


252  PROMETHEUS. 

More  capable  of  ruin  than  the  gold 

And  ivory  that  image  thee  on  earth. 

He  who  hurled  down  the  monstrous  Titan-brood 

Blinded  with  lightnings,  with  rough  thunders  stunned, 

Is  weaker  than  a  simple  human  thought. 

My  slender  voice  can  shake  thee,  as  the  breeze, 

That  seems  but  apt  to  stir  a  maiden's  hair, 

Sways  huge  Oceanus  from  pole  to  pole  : 

For  I  am  still  Prometheus,  and  foreknow 

In  my  wise  heart  the  end  and  doom  of  all. 

Yes,  I  am  still  Prometheus,  wiser  grown 

By  years  of  solitude — that  holds  apart 

The  past  and  future,  giving  the  soul  room 

To  search  into  itself — and  long  commune 

With  this  eternal  silence — more  a  god 

In  my  long-suffering  and  strength  to  meet 

With  equal  front  the  direst  shafts  of  fate, 

Than  thou  in  thy  faint-hearted  despotism, 

Girt  with  thy  baby-toys  of  force  and  wrath. 

Yes,  I  am  that  Prometheus  who  brought  down 

The  light  to  man  which  thou  in  selfish  fear 

Had'st  to  thyself  usurped — his  by  sole  right, 

For  Man  hath  right  to  all  save  Tyranny — 

And  which  shall  free  him  yet  from  thy  frail  throne. 

Tyrants  are  but  the  spawn  of  Ignorance, 

Begotten  by  the  slaves  they  trample  on, 

Who,  could  they  win  a  glimmer  of  the  light, 

And  see  that  Tyranny  is  always  weakness, 

Or  Fear  with  its  own  bosom  ill  at  ease, 

Would  laugh  away  in  scorn  the  sand-wove  chain 

Which  their  own  blindness  feigned  for  adamant. 

Wrong  ever  builds  on  quicksands,  but  the  Eight 


PROMETHEtTS.  253 

To  the  firm  centre  lays  its  moveless  base. 

The  tyrant  trembles  if  the  air  but  stirs 

The  innocent  ringlets  of  a  child's  free  hair, 

And  crouches,  when  the  thought  of  some  great  spirit, 

With  world-wide  murmur,  like  a  rising  gale, 

Over  men's  hearts,  as  over  standing  corn, 

Hushes,  and  bends  them  to  its  own  strong  will. 

So  shall  some  thought  of  mine  yet  circle  earth 

And  puff  away  thy  crumbling  altars,  Jove. 

And,  would'st  thou  know  of  my  supreme  revenge, 

Poor  tyrant,  even  now  dethroned  in  heart, 

Realmless  in  soul,  as  tyrants  ever  are, 

Listen  !  and  tell  me  if  this  bitter  peak, 

This  never-glutted  vulture,  and  these  chains 

Shrink  not  before  it,  for  it  shall  befit 

A  sorrow-taught,  unconquered  Titan-heart. 

Men,  when  their  death  is  on  them,  seem  to  stand 

On  a  precipitous  crag  that  overhangs 

The  abyss  of  doom,  and  in  that  depth  to  see, 

As  in  a  glass,  the  features  dim  and  huge 

Of  things  to  come,  the  shadows,  as  it  seems, 

Of  what  have  been.     Death  never  fronts  the  wise, 

Not  fearfully,  but  with  clear  promises 

Of  larger  life,  on  whose  broad  vans  upborne, 

Their  outlook  widens,  and  they  see  beyond 

The  horizon  of  the  Present  and  the  Past, 

Even  to  the  very  source  and  end  of  things. 

Such  am  I  now  :  immortal  woe  hath  made 

My  heart  a  seer,  and  my  soul  a  judge 

Between  the  substance  and  the  shadow  of  Truth. 

The  sure  supremeness  of  the  Beautiful, 

By  all  the  martyrdoms  made  doubly  sure 

Of  such  as  I  am,  this  is  my  revenge, 


254  PROMETHEUS. 

Which  of  my  wrongs  builds  a  triumphal  arch 

Through  which  I  see  a  sceptre  and  a  throne. 

The  pipings  of  glad  shepherds  on  the  hills, 

Tending  the  flocks  no  more  to  bleed  for  thee — 

The  songs  of  maidens  pressing  with  white  feet 

The  vintage  on  thine  altars  poured  no  more — 

The  murmurous  bliss  of  lovers,  underneath 

Dim  grape-vine  bowers,  whose  rosy  bunches  press 

Not  half  so  closely  their  warm  cheeks,  unscared 

By  thoughts  of  thy  brute  lusts — the  hive-like  hum 

Of  peaceful  commonwealths,  where  sunburnt  Toil 

Heaps  for  itself  the  rich  earth  made  its  own 

By  its  own  labor,  lightened  with  glad  hymns 

To  an  omnipotence  which  thy  mad  bolts 

Would  cope  with  as  a  spark  with  the  vast  sea, 

Even  the  spirit  of  free  love  and  peace, 

Duty's  sure  recompense  through  life  and  death — 

These  are  such  harvests  as  all  master-spirits 

Reap,  haply  not  on  earth,  but  reap  no  less 

Because  the  sheaves  are  bound  by  hands  not  theirs  ; 

These  are  the  bloodless  daggers  wherewithal 

They  stab  fallen  tyrants,  this  their  high  revenge  : 

For  their  best  part  of  life  on  earth  is  when, 

Long  after  death,  prisoned  and  pent  no  more, 

Their  thoughts,  their  wild  dreams  even,  have  become 

Part  of  the  necessary  air  men  breathe  ; 

When,  like  the  moon,  herself  behind  a  cloud, 

They  shed  down  light  before  us  on  life's  sea, 

That  cheers  us  to  steer  onward  still  in  hope. 

Earth  with  her  twining  memories  ivies  o'er 

Their  holy  sepulchres,  the  chainless  sea 

In  tempest  or  wild  calm  repeats  their  thoughts, 

The  lightning  and  the  thunder,  all  free  things, 


PROMETHEUS.  256 

Have  legends  of  them  for  the  ears  of  men. 
All  other  glories  are  as  falling  stars, 
But  universal  Nature  watches  theirs  ; 
Such  strength  is  won  by  love  of  human  kind. 

Not  that  I  feel  that  hunger  after  fame, 

Which  souls  of  a  half-greatness  are  beset  with  ; 

But  that  the  memory  of  noble  deeds 

Cries  shame  upon  the  idle  and  the  vile, 

And  keeps  the  heart  of  Man  forever  up 

To  the  heroic  level  of  old  time. 

To  be  forgot  at  first  is  little  pain 

To  a  heart  conscious  of  such  high  intent 

As  must  be  deathless  on  the  lips  of  men; 

But,  having  been  a  name,  to  sink  and  be 

A  something  which  the  world  can  do  without, 

Which,  having  been  or  not,  would  never  change 

The  lightest  pulse  of  fate — this  is  indeed 

A  cup  of  bitterness  the  worst  to  taste, 

And  this  thy  heart  shall  empty  to  the  dregs. 

Oblivion  is  lonelier  than  this  peak — 

Behold  thy  destiny  !     Thou  think'st  it  much 

That  I  should  brave  thee,  miserable  god  ! 

But  I  have  braved  a  mightier  than  thou, 

Even  the  temptings  of  this  soaring  heart 

Which  might  have  made  me,  scarcely  less  than  thou, 

A  god  among  my  brethren  weak  and  blind, 

Scarce  less  than  thou,  a  pitiable  thing, 

To  be  down-trodden  into  darkness  soon  ; 

But  now  I  am  above  thee,  for  thou  art 

The  bungling  workmanship  of  fear,  the  block 

That  scares  the  swart  Barbarian  ;  but  I 

Am  what  myself  have  made,  a  nature  wise 


256  PROMETHEUS. 

With  finding  in  itself  the  types  of  all, — 
With  watching  from  the  dim  verge  of  the  time 
What  things  to  be  are  visible  in  the  gleams 
Thrown  forward  on  them  from  the  luminous  past — 
Wise  with  the  history  of  its  own  frail  heart, 
With  reverence  and  sorrow,  and  with  love 
Broad  as  the  world  for  freedom  and  for  man. 

Thou  and  all  strength  shall  crumble,  except  Love, 

By  whom  and  for  whose  glory  ye  shall  cease  : 

And,  when  thou  art  but  a  dim  moaning  heard 

From  out  the  pitiless  glooms  of  Chaos,  I 

Shall  be  a  power  and  a  memory, 

A  name  to  scare  all  tyrants  with,  a  light 

Unsetting  as  the  pole-star,  a  great  voice 

Heard  in  the  breathless  pauses  of  the  fight 

By  truth  and  freedom  ever  waged  with  wrong, 

Clear  as  a  silver  trumpet,  to  awake 

Huge  echoes  that  from  age  to  age  live  on 

In  kindred  spirits,  giving  them  a  sense 

Of  boundless  power  from  boundless  suffering  wrung. 

And  many  a  glazing  eye  shall  smile  to  see 

The  memory  of  my  triumph  (for  to  meet 

Wrong  with  endurance,  and  to  overcome 

The  present  with  a  heart  that  looks  beyond, 

Are  triumph),  like  a  prophet  eagle,  perch 

Upon  the  sacred  banner  of  the  right. 

Evil  springs  up,  and  flowers,  and  bears  no  seed, 

And  feeds  the  green  earth  with  its  swift  decay, 

Leaving  it  richer  for  the  growth  of  truth  ; 

But  Good,  once  put  in  action  or  in  thought, 

Like  a  strong  oak,  doth  from  its  boughs  shed  down 

The  ripe  germs  of  a  forest.     Thou,  weak  god, 


PROMETHEUS.  257 

Shalt  fade  and  be  forgotten  ;  but  this  soul, 
Fresh-living  still  in  the  serene  abyss, 
In  every  heaving  shall  partake,  that  grows 
From  heart  to  heart  among  the  sons  of  men — 
As  the  ominous  hum  before  the  earthquake  runs 
Far  through  the  JEgean  from  roused  isle  to  isle — 
Foreboding  wreck  to  palaces  and  shrines, 
And  mighty  rents  in  many  a  cavernous  error 
That  darkens  the  free  light  to  man  : — This  heart 
Unscarred  by  thy  grim  vulture,  as  the  truth 
Grows  but  more  lovely  'neath  the  beaks  and  claws 
Of  Harpies  blind  that  fain  would  soil  it,  shall 
In  all  the  throbbing  exultations  share 
That  wait  on  freedom's  triumphs,  and  in  all 
The  glorious  agonies  of  martyr-spirits — 
Sharp  lightning-throes  to  split  the  jagged  clouds 
That  veil  the  future,  showing  them  the  end — 
Pain's  thorny  crown  for  constancy  and  truth, 
Girding  the  temples  like  a  wreath  of  stars. 
This  is  a  thought,  that,  like  the  fabled  laurel, 
Makes  my  faith  thunder-proof,  and  thy  dread  bolts 
Fall  on  rne  like  the  silent  flakes  of  snow 
On  the  hoar  brows  of  aged  Caucasus  : 
But,  0  thought  far  more  blissful,  they  can  rend 
This  cloud  of  flesh,  and  make  my  soul  a  star  ! 

Unleash  thy  crouching  thunders  now,  0  Jove  ! 
Free  this  high  heart  which,  a  poor  captive  long, 
Doth  knock  to  be  let  forth,  this  heart  which  still, 
In  its  invincible  manhood,  overtops 
Thy  puny  godship  as  this  mountain  doth 
The  pines  that  moss  its  roots.     0  even  now, 
While  from  my  peak  of  suffering  I  look  down, 
17 


258  PROMETHEUS. 

Beholding  with  a  far- spread  gush  of  hope 

The  sunrise  of  that  Beauty  in  whose  face, 

Shone  all  around  with  love,  no  man  shall  look 

But  straightway  like  a  god  he  is  uplift 

Unto  the  throne  long  empty  for  his  sake, 

And  clearly  oft  foreshadowed  in  wide  dreams 

By  his  free  inward  nature,  which  nor  thou, 

Nor  any  anarch  after  thee,  can  bind 

From  working  its  great  doom — now,  now  set  free 

This  essence,  not  to  die,  but  to  become 

Part  of  that  awful  Presence  which  doth  haunt 

The  palaces  of  tyrants,  to  scare  off, 

With  its  grim  eyes  and  fearful  whisperings 

And  hideous  sense  of  utter  loneliness, 

All  hope  of  safety,  all  desire  of  peace, 

All  but  the  loathed  forefeeling  of  blank  death — 

Part  of  that  spirit  which  doth  ever  brood 

In  patient  calm  on  the  unpilfered  nest 

Of  man's    deep    heart,    till    mighty   thoughts    grow 

fledged 

To  sail  with  darkening  shadow  o'er  the  world, 
Until  they  swoop,  and  their  pale  quarry  make 
Of  some  o'erbloated  wrong — that  spirit  which 
Scatters  great  hopes  in  the  seed-field  of  man, 
Like  acorns  among  grain,  to  grow  and  be 
A  roof  for  freedom  in  all  coming  time. 

But  no,  this  cannot  be  ;  for  ages  yet, 

In  solitude  unbroken,  shall  I  hear 

The  angry  Caspian  to  the  Euxine  shout, 

And  Euxine  answer  with  a  muffled  roar, 

On  either  side  storming  the  giant  walls 

Of  Caucasus  with  leagues  of  climbing  foam, 


PROMETHEUS. 

(Less,  from  my  height,  than  flakes  of  downy  snow) 

That  draw  back  baffled  but  to  hurl  again, 

Snatched  up  in  wrath  and  horrible  turmoil, 

Mountain  on  mountain,  as  the  Titans  erst, 

My  brethren,  scaling  the  high  seat  of  Jove, 

Heaved  Pelion  upon  Ossa's  shoulders  broad, 

In  vain  emprise.     The  moon  will  come  and  go 

With  her  monotonous  vicissitude  ; 

Once  beautiful,  when  I  was  free  to  walk 

Among  my  fellows  and  to  interchange 

The  influence  benign  of  loving  eyes, 

But  now  by  aged  use  grown  wearisome  ; — 

False  thought !  most  false  !  for  how  could  I  endure 

These  crawling  centuries  of  lonely  woe 

Unshamed  by  weak  complaining,  but  for  thee, 

Loneliest,  save  me,  of  all  created  things, 

Mild-eyed  Astarte1,  my  best  comforter, 

With  thy  pale  smile  of  sad  benignity  ? 

Year  after  year  will  pass  away  and  seem 

To  me,  in  mine  eternal  agony, 

But  as  the  shadows  of  dumb  summer-clouds, 

Which  I  have  watched  so  often  darkening  o'er 

The  vast  Sarmatian  plain,  league-wide  at  first, 

But,  with  still  swiftness,  lessening  on  and  on 

Till  cloud  and  shadow  meet  and  mingle  where 

The  gray  horizon  fades  into  the  sky, 

Far,  far  to  northward.     Yes,  for  ages  yet 

Must  I  lie  here  upon  my  altar  huge, 

A  sacrifice  for  man.     Sorrow  will  be, 

As  it  hath  been,  his  portion  ;  endless  doom, 

While  the  immortal  with  the  mortal  linked 

Dreams  of  its  wings  and  pines  for  what  it  dreams 

With  upward  yearn  unceasing.     Better  so  : 


ROSALINE. 

For  wisdom  is  meek  sorrow's  patient  child, 

And  empire  over  self,  and  all  the  deep 

Strong  charities  that  make  men  seem  like  gods ; 

And  love,  that  makes  them  be  gods,  from  her  breasts 

Sucks  in  the  milk  that  makes  mankind  one  blood. 

Good  never  comes  unmixed,  or  so  it  seems, 

Having  two  faces,  as  some  images 

Are  carved,  of  foolish  gods  ;  one  face  is  ill, 

But  one  heart  lies  beneath,  and  that  is  good, 

As  are  all  hearts,  when  we  explore  their  depths. 

Therefore,  great  heart,  bear  up  !  thou  art  but  type 

Of  what  all  lofty  spirits  endure,  that  fain 

Would  win  men  back  to  strength  and  peace  through 

love  : 

Each  hath  his  lonely  peak,  and  on  each  heart 
Envy,  or  scorn,  or  hatred,  tears  lifelong 
With  vulture  beak  ;  yet  the  high  soul  is  left, 
And  faith,  which  is  but  hope  grown  wise,  and  love, 
And  patience  which  at  last  shall  overcome. 
CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  June,  1843. 


ROSALINE. 

THOU  look'd'st  on  me  all  yesternight, 
Thine  eyes  were  blue,  thy  hair  was  bright 
As  when  we  murmured  our  trothplight 
Beneath  the  thick  stars,  Rosaline  ! 
Thy  hair  was  braided  on  thy  head 
As  on  the  day  we  two  were  wed, 
Mine  eyes  scarce  knew  if  thou  wert  dead — 
But  my  shrunk  heart  knew,  Rosaline  ! 


ROSALINE. 

The  deathwatch  tickt  behind  the  wall, 
The  blackness  rustled  like  a  pall, 
The  moaning  wind  did  rise  and  fall 
Among  the  bleak  pines,  Rosaline  ! 
My  heart  beat  thickly  in  mine  ears : 
The  lids  may  shut  out  fleshly  fears, 
But  still  the  spirit  sees  and  hears, 
Its  eyes  are  lidless,  Rosaline  ! 

A  wildness  rushing  suddenly, 

A  knowing  some  ill  shape  is  nigh, 

A  wish  for  death,  a  fear  to  die — 

Is  not  this  vengeance,  Rosaline  ! 

A  loneliness  that  is  not  lone, 

A  love  quite  withered  up  and  gone, 

A  strong  soul  trampled  from  its  throne — 

What  would'st  thou  further,  Rosaline  ! 

'T  is  lone  such  moonless  nights  as  these, 
Strange  sounds  are  out  upon  the  breeze, 
And  the  leaves  shiver  in  the  trees, 
And  then  thou  comest,  Rosaline  ! 
I  seem  to  hear  the  mourners  go, 
With  long  black  garments  trailing  slow, 
And  plumes  a-uodding  to  and  fro, 
As  once  I  heard  them,  Rosaline  ! 

Thy  shroud  it  is  of  snowy  white, 
And,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Thou  standest  moveless  and  upright, 
Gazing  upon  me,  Rosaline  ! 
There  is  no  sorrow  in  thine  eyes, 
But  evermore  that  meek  surprise — 


262  ROSALINE. 

Oh,  God  !  her  gentle  spirit  tries 
To  deem  me  guiltless,  Eosaline  ! 

Above  thy  grave  the  Robin  sings, 

And  swarms  of  bright  and  happy  things 

Flit  all  about  with  sunlit  wings — 

But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline  ! 

The  violets  on  the  hillock  toss, 

The  gravestone  is  o'ergrown  with  moss, 

For  nature  feels  not  any  loss — 

But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline  ! 

Ah  !  why  wert  thou  so  lowly  bred  ? 
Why  was  my  pride  galled  on  to  wed 
Her  who  brought  lands  and  gold  instead 
Of  thy  heart's  treasure,  Rosaline  ! 
Why  did  I  fear  to  let  thee  stay 
To  look  on  me  and  pass  away 
Forgivingly,  as  in  its  May, 
A  broken  flower,  Rosaline  ! 

I  thought  not,  when  my  dagger  strook, 

Of  thy  blue  eyes  ;  I  could  not  brook 

The  past  all  pleading  in  one  look 

Of  utter  sorrow,  Rosaline  ! 

I  did  not  know  when  thou  wert  dead  : 

A  blackbird  whistling  overhead 

Thrilled  through  my  brain  ;  I  would  have  fled 

But  dared  not  leave  thee,  Rosaline  ! 

A  low,  low  moan,  a  light  twig  stirred 
By  the  upspringing  of  a  bird, 
A  drip  of  blood — were  all  I  heard — 
Then  deathly  stillness,  Rosaline  ! 


ROSALINE. 

The  sun  rolled  down,  and  very  soon, 
Like  a  great  fire,  the  awful  moon 
Rose,  stained  with  blood,  and  then  a  swoon 
Crept  chilly  o'er  me,  Rosaline  ! 

The  stars  came  out ;  and,  one  by  one, 
Each  angel  from  his  silver  throne 
Looked  down  and  saw  what  I  had  done  : 
I  dared  not  hide  me,  Rosaline  ! 
I  crouched  ;  I  feared  thy  corpse  would  cry 
Against  me  to  God's  quiet  sky, 
I  thought  I  saw  the  blue  lips  try 
To  utter  something,  Rosaline  ! 

I  waited  with  a  maddened  grin 

To  hear  that  voice  all  icy  thin 

Slide  forth  and  tell  my  deadly  sin 

To  hell  and  heaven,  Rosaline  ! 

But  no  voice  came,  and  then  it  seemed 

That  if  the  very  corpse  had  screamed 

The  sound  like  sunshine  glad  had  streamed 

Through  that  dark  stillness,  Rosaline  ! 

Dreams  of  old  quiet  glimmered  by, 
And  faces  loved  in  infancy 
Came  and  looked  on  me  mournfully, 
Till  my  heart  melted,  Rosaline  ! 
I  saw  my  mother's  dying  bed, 
I  heard  her  bless  me,  and  I  shed 
Cool  tears — but  lo  !  the  ghastly  dead 
Stared  me  to  madness,  Rosaline  1 

And  then  amid  the  silent  night 
I  screamed  with  horrible  delight. 


ROSALINE. 

And  in  my  brain  an  awful  light 

Did  seem  to  crackle,  Rosaline  ! 

It  is  my  curse  !  sweet  mem'ries  fall 

From  me  like  snow — and  only  all 

Of  that  one  night,  like  cold  worms  crawl 

My  doomed  heart  over,  Rosaline  ! 

Thine  eyes  are  shut :  they  nevermore 
Will  leap  thy  gentle  words  before 
To  tell  the  secret  o'er  and  o'er 
Thou  could 'st  not  smother,  Rosaline  ! 
Thine  eyes  are  shut  :  they  will  not  shine 
With  happy  tears,  or,  through  the  vine 
That  hid  thy  casement,  beam  on  mine 
Sunfull  with  gladness,  Rosaline  ! 

Thy  voice  I  nevermore  shall  hear, 
Which  in  old  times  did  seem  so  dear, 
That,  ere  it  trembled  in  mine  ear, 
My  quick  heart  heard  it,  Rosaline  ! 
Would  I  might  die  !     I  were  as  well, 
Ay,  better,  at  my  home  in  hell, 
To  set  for  aye  a  burning  spell 
'Twixt  me  and  memory,  Rosaline  ! 

Why  wilt  thou  haunt  me  with  thine  eye§, 
Wherein  such  blessed  memories, 
Such  pitying  forgiveness  lies, 
Than  hate  more  bitter,  Rosaline  ! 
Woe  's  me  !    I  know  that  love  so  high 
As  thine,  true  soul,  could  never  die, 
And  with  mean  clay  in  churchyard  lie- 
Would  God  it  were  so,  Rosaline  ! 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN 
SONNET. 

IF  some  small  savor  creep  into  my  rhyme 

Of  the  old  poets,  if  some  words  1  use, 

Neglected  long,  which  have  the  lusty  thews 

Of  that  gold-haired  and  earnest-hearted  time, 

Whose  loving  joy  and  sorrow  all  sublime 

Have  given  our  tongue  its  starry  eminence, — 

It  is  not  pride,  God  knows,  but  reverence 

Which  hath  grown  in  me  since  my  childhood's  prime  ; 

Wherein  I  feel  that  my  poor  lyre  is  strung 

With  soul-strings  like  to  theirs,  and  that  I  have 

No  right  to  muse  their  holy  graves  among, 

If  I  can  be  a  custom-fettered  slave, 

And,  in  mine  own  true  spirit,  am  not  brave 

To  speak  what  rusheth  upward  to  my  tongue. 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CUKTAIN. 

WE  see  but  half  the  causes  of  our  deeds, 
Seeking  them  wholly  in  the  outer  life, 
And  heedless  of  the  encircling  spirit-world 
Which,  though  unseen,  is  felt,  and  sows  in  us 
All  germs  of  pure  and  world-wide  purposes. 
From  one  stage  of  our  being  to  the  next 
We  pass  unconscious  o'er  a  slender  bridge, 
The  momentary  work  of  unseen  hands, 
Which  crumbles  down  behind  us  ;  looking  back, 
We  see  the  other  shore,  the  gulf  between, 
And,  marvelling  how  we  won  to  where  we  stand, 
Content  ourselves  to  call  the  builder  Chance. 
We  trace  the  wisdom  to  the  apple's  fall, 
Not  to  the  soul  of  Newton,  ripe  with  all 


266  A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

The  hoarded  thoughtfulness  of  earnest  years, 
And  waiting  but  one  ray  of  sunlight  more 
To  blossom  fully. 

But  whence  came  that  ray  ? 
We  call  our  sorrows  destiny,  but  ought 
Rather  to  name  our  high  successes  so. 
Only  the  instincts  of  great  souls  are  Fate, 
And  have  predestined  sway  :  all  other  things, 
Except  by  leave  of  us,  could  never  be. 
For  Destiny  is  but  the  breath  of  God 
Still  moving  in  us,  the  last  fragment  left 
Of  our  unfallen  nature,  waking  oft 
Within  our  thought  to  beckon  us  beyond 
The  narrow  circle  of  the  seen  and  known, 
And  always  tending  to  a  noble  end, 
As  all  things  must  that  overrule  the  soul, 
And  for  a  space  unseat  the  helmsman,  Will. 
The  fate  of  England  and  of  freedom  once 
Seemed  wavering  in  the  heart  of  one  plain  man  ; 
One  step  of  his,  and  the  great  dial-hand 
That  marks  the  destined  progress  of  the  world 
In  the  eternal  round  from  wisdom  on 
To  higher  wisdom,  had  been  made  to  pause 
A  hundred  years.     That  step  he  did  not  take — 
He  knew  not  why,  nor  we,  but  only  God — 
And  lived  to  make  his  simple  oaken  chair 
More  terrible  and  grandly  beautiful, 
More  full  of  majesty,  than  any  throne, 
Before  or  after,  of  a  British  king. 

Upon  the  pier  stood  two  stern-visaged  men, 
Looking  to  where  a  little  craft  lay  moored, 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

Swayed  by  the  lazy  current  of  the  Thames, 

Which  weltered  by  in  muddy  listlessness. 

Grave  men  they  were,  and  battliugs  of  fierce  thought 

Had  scared  away  all  softness  from  their  brows, 

And  ploughed  rough  furrows  there  before  their  time. 

Care,  not  of  self,  but  of  the  common  weal, 

Had  robbed  their  eyes  of  youth,  and  left  instead 

A  look  of  patient  power  and  iron  will, 

And  something  fiercer,  too,  that  gave  broad  hint 

Of  the  plain  weapons  girded  at  their  sides. 

The  younger  had  an  aspect  of  command — 

Not  such  as  trickles  down,  a  slender  stream, 

In  the  shrunk  channel  of  a  great  descent — 

But  such  as  lies  entowered  in  heart  and  head, 

And  an  arm  prompt  to  do  the  Chests  of  both. 

His  was  a  brow  where  gold  were  out  of  place, 

And  yet  it  seemed  right  worthy  of  a  crown 

(Though  he  despised  such),  were  it  only  made 

Of  iron,  or  some  serviceable  stuff 

That  would  have  matched  his  sinewy  brown  face. 

The  elder,  although  such  he  hardly  seemed 

(Care  makes  so  little  of  some  five  short  years), 

Bore  a  clear,  honest  face,  where  scholarship 

Had  mildened  somewhat  of  its  rougher  strength, 

To  sober  courage,  such  as  best  befits 

The  unsullied  temper  of  a  well-taught  mind, 

Yet  left  it  so  as  one  could  plainly  guess 

The  pent  volcano  smouldering  underneath. 

He  spoke  :  the  other,  hearing,  kept  his  gaze 

Still  fixed,  as  on  some  problem  in  the  sky. 

"  0  CROMWELL,  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times  I 
There  was  a  day  when  England  had  wide  room 


268  A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

For  honest  men  as  well  as  foolish  kings ; 

But  now  the  uneasy  stomach  of  the  time 

Turns  squeamish  at  them  both.     Therefore  let  us 

Seek  out  that  savage  clime  where  men  as  yet 

Are  free  :  there  sleeps  the  vessel  on  the  tide, 

Her  languid  sails  but  drooping  for  the  wind  : 

All  things  are  fitly  cared  for,  and  the  Lord 

Will  watch  as  kindly  o'er  the  Exodus 

Of  us  his  servants  now,  as  in  old  time. 

We  have  no  cloud  or  fire,  and  haply  we 

May  not  pass  dryshod  through  the  ocean-stream  ; 

But,  saved  or  lost,  all  things  are  in  His  hand." 

So  spake  he,  and  meantime  the  other  stood 

With  wide,  gray  eyes  still  reading  the  blank  air, 

As  if  upon  the  sky's  blue  wall  he  saw 

Some  mystic  sentence  written  by  a  hand 

Such  as  of  old  did  scare  the  Assyrian  king, 

Girt  with  his  satraps  in  the  blazing  feast. 

"HAMPDEN,  a  moment  since,  my  purpose  was 
To  fly  with  thee— for  I  will  call  it  flight, 
Nor  flatter  it  with  any  smoother  name — 
But  something  in  me  bids  me  not  to  go ; 
And  I  am  one,  thou  knowest,  who,  unscared 
By  what  the  weak  deem  omens,  yet  give  heed 
And  reverence  due  to  whatsoe'er  my  soul 
Whispers  of  warning  to  the  inner  ear. 
Why  should  we  fly  ?     Nay,  why  not  rather  stay 
And  rear  again  our  Zion's  crumbled  walls, 
Not  as  of  old  the  walls  of  Thebes  were  built 
By  minstrel  twanging,  but,  if  need  should  be, 
With  the  more  potent  music  of  our  swords  ? 
Think'st  thou  that  score  of  men  beyond  the  sea 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN.  269 

Claim  more  God's  care  than  all  of  England  here  ? 

No  :  when  He  moves  His  arm,  it  is  to  aid 

Whole  peoples,  heedless  if  a  few  be  crushed, 

As  some  are  ever  when  the  destiny 

Of  man  takes  one  stride  onward  nearer  home. 

Believe  it,  't  is  the  mass  of  men  He  loves. 

And  where  there  is  most  sorrow  and  most  want, 

Where  the  high  heart  of  man  is  trodden  down 

The  most,  't  is  not  because  He  hides  His  face 

From  them  in  wrath,  as  purblind  teachers  prate. 

Not  so  :  there  most  is  He,  for  there  is  He 

Most  needed.     Men  who  seek  for  Fate  abroad 

Are  not  so  near  His  heart  as  they  who  dare 

Frankly  to  face  her  where  she  faces  them, 

On  their  own  threshold,  where  their  souls  are  strong 

To  grapple  with  and  throw  her,  as  I  once, 

Being  yet  a  boy,  did  throw  this  puny  king, 

Who  now  has  grown  so  dotard  as  to  deem 

That  he  can  wrestle  with  an  angry  realm, 

And  throw  the  brawned  Antaeus  of  men's  rights. 

No,  Hampden  ;  they  have  half-way  conquered  Fate 

Who  go  half-way  to  meet  her — as  will  I. 

Freedom  hath  yet  a  work  for  me  to  do  ; 

So  speaks  that  inward  voice  which  never  yet 

Spake  falsely,  when  it  urged  the  spirit  on 

To  noble  deeds  for  country  and  mankind. 

"  What  should  we  do  in  that  small  colony 

Of  pinched  fanatics,  who  would  rather  choose 

Freedom  to  clip  an  inch  more  from  their  hair 

Than  the  great  chance  of  setting  England  free  ? 

Not  there  amid  the  stormy  wilderness 

Should  we  learn  wisdom  ;  or,  if  learned,  what  room 


9YO  A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

To  put  it  into  act — else  worse  than  naught  ? 

We  learn  our  souls  more,  tossing  for  an  hour 

Upon  this  huge  and  ever  vexed  sea 

Of  human  thought,  where  kingdoms  go  to  wreck 

Like  fragile  bubbles  yonder  in  the  stream, 

Than  in  a  cycle  of  New  England  sloth, 

Broke  only  by  some  petty  Indian  war, 

Or  quarrel  for  a  letter,  more  or  less, 

In  some  hard  word,  which,  spelt  in  either  way, 

Not  their  most  learned  clerks  can  understand. 

New  times  demand  new  measures  and  new  men ; 

The  world  advances,  and  in  time  outgrows 

The  laws  that  in  our  father's  day  were  best ; 

And,  doubtless,  after  us,  some  purer  scheme 

Will  be  shaped  out  by  wiser  men  than  we, 

Made  wiser  by  the  steady  growth  of  truth. 

We  cannot  bring  Utopia  at  once ; 

But  better  almost  be  at  work  in  sin 

Than  in  a  brute  inaction  browse  and  sleep. 

No  man  is  born  into  the  world  whose  work 

Is  not  born  with  him  ;  there  is  always  work, 

And  tools  to  work  withal,  for  those  who  will ; 

And  blessed  are  the  horny  hands  of  toil  ! 

The  busy  world  shoves  angrily  aside 

The  man  who  stands  with  arms  a-kimbo  set, 

Until  occasion  tells  him  what  to  do  ; 

And  he  who  waits  to  have  his  task  marked  out, 

Shall  die  and  leave  his  errand  unfulfilled. 

Our  time  is  one  that  calls  for  earnest  deeds. 

Eeason  and  Government,  like  two  broad  seas, 

Yearn  for  each  other  with  outstretched  armi 

Across  this  narrow  isthmus  of  the  throne, 

And  roll  their  white  surf  higher  every  day. 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

The  field  lies  wide  before  us,  where  to  reap 

The  easy  harvest  of  a  deathless  name, 

Though  with  no  better  sickles  than  our  swords. 

My  soul  is  not  a  palace  of  the  past, 

Where    outworn    creeds,   like     Eorae's    gray    senate 

quake, 

Hearing  afar  the  Vandal's  trumpet  hoarse, 
That  shakes  old  systems  with  a  thunder-fit. 
The  time  is  ripe,  and  rotten-ripe,  for  change ; 
Then  let  it  come  :  I  have  no  dread  of  what 
Is  called  for  by  the  instinct  of  mankind. 
Nor  think  I  that  God's  world  would  fall  apart 
Because  we  tear  a  parchment  more  or  less. 
Truth  is  eternal,  but  her  effluence, 
With  endless  change,  is  fitted  to  the  hour ; 
Her  mirror  is  turned  forward,  to  reflect 
The  promise  of  the  future,  not  the  past. 
I  do  not  fear  to  follow  out  the  truth, 
Albeit  along  the  precipice's  edge. 
Let  us  speak  plain  :  there  is  more  force  in  names 
Than  most  men  dream  of  ;  and  a  lie  may  keep 
Its  throne  a  whole  age  longer,  if  it  skulk 
Behind  the  shield  of  some  fair-seeming  name. 
Let  us  call  tyrants  tyrants,  and  maintain 
That  only  freedom  comes  by  grace  of  God, 
And  all  that  comes  not  by  his  grace  must  fall : 
For  men  in  earnest  have  no  time  to  waste 
In  patching  fig-leaves  for  the  naked  truth. 

"  I  will  have  one  more  grapple  with  the  man 
Charles  Stuart :  whom  the  boy  o'ercame, 
The  man  stands  not  in  awe  of.     I  perchanof 
Am  one  raised  up  by  the  Almighty  arm 


272  A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

To  wituess  some  great  truth  to  all  the  world. 

Souls  destined  to  o'erleap  the  vulgar  lot, 

And  mould  the  world  unto  the  scheme  of  God, 

Have  a  foreconsciousness  of  their  high  doom, 

As  men  are  known  to  shiver  at  the  heart, 

When  the  cold  shadow  of  some  coming  ill 

Creeps  slowly  o'er  their  spirits  unawares  : 

Hath  Good  less  power  of  prophecy  than  111  ? 

How    else    could    men   whom    God    hath    called  to 

sway 

Earth's  rudder,  and  to  steer  the  barque  of  Truth, 
Beating  against  the  wind  toward  her  port, 
Bear  all  the  mean  and  buzzing  grievances, 
The  petty  martyrdoms  wherewith  Sin  strives 
To  weary  out  the  tethered  hope  of  Faith, 
The  sneers,  the  unrecognizing  look  of  friends, 
Who  worship  the  dead  corpse  of  old  king  Custom, 
Where  it  doth  lie  in  state  within  the  Church, 
Striving  to  cover  up  the  mighty  ocean 
With  a  man's  palm,  and  making  even  the  truth 
Lie  for  them,  holding  up  the  glass  reversed, 
To  make  the  hope  of  man  seem  further  off  ? 
My  God  !  when  I  read  o'er  the  bitter  lives 
Of  men  whose  eager  hearts  were  quite  too  great 
To  beat  beneath  the  cramped  mode  of  the  clay, 
And  see  them  mocked  at  by  the  world  they  love. 
Haggling  with  prejudice  for  pennyworths 
Of  that  reform  which  their  hard  toil  will  make 
The  common  birthright  of  the  age  to  come — 
When  I  see  this,  spite  of  my  faith  in  God, 
I  marvel  how  their  hearts  bear  up  so  long  ; 
Nor  could  they,  but  for  this  same  prophecy, 
This  inward  feeling  of  the  glorious  end. 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND  THE  CURTAIN. 

"  Deem  me  not  fond  ;  but  in  my  warmer  youth, 

Ere  my  heart's  bloom  was  soiled  and  brushed  away, 

I  had  great  dreams  of  mighty  things  to  come  ; 

Of  conquest ;  whether  by  the  sword  or  pen, 

I  knew  not ;  but  some  conquest  I  would  have, 

Or  else  swift  death  :  now,  wiser  grown  in  years, 

1  find  youth's  dreams  are  but  the  flutterings 

Of  those  strong  wings  whereon  the  soul  shall  soar 

In  after  time  to  win  a  starry  throne ; 

And  therefore  cherish  them,  for  they  were  lots 

Which  I,  a  boy,  cast  in  the  helm  of  Fate. 

Nor  will  I  draw  them,  since  a  man's  right  hand, 

A  right  hand  guided  by  an  earnest  soul, 

With  a  true  instinct,  takes  the  golden  prize 

From  out  a  thousand  blanks.     What  men  call  luck, 

Is  the  prerogative  of  valiant  souls, 

The  fealty  life  pays  its  rightful  kings. 

The  helm  is  shaking  now,  and  I  will  stay 

To  pluck  my  lot  forth  ;  it  were  sin  to  flee  1 " 

So  they  two  turned  together  ;  one  to  die 
Fighting  for  freedom  on  the  bloody  field  ; 
The  other,  far  more  happy,  to  become 
A  name  earth  wears  forever  next  her  heart ; 
One  of  the  few  that  have  a  right  to  rank 
With  the  true  Makers  ;  for  his  spirit  wrought 
Order  from  Chaos  ;  proved  that  right  divine 
Dwelt  only  in  the  excellence  of  Truth  ; 
And  far  within  old  Darkness'  hostile  lines 
Advanced  and  pitched  the  shining  tents  of  Light, 
Nor  shall  the  grateful  Muse  forget  to  tell, 
That — not  the  least  among  his  many  claims 
To  deathless  honor — he  was  MILTON'S  friend 
18 


±  SONG. 

A.  man  not  second  among  those  who  lived 
To  show  us  that  the  poet's  lyre  demands 
An  arm  of  tougher  sinew  than  the  sword. 


A  SONG. 

VIOLET  !  sweet  violet ! 
Thine  eyes  are  full  of  tears ; 
Are  they  wet 
Even  yet 

With  the  thought  of  other  years, 
Or  with  gladness  are  they  full. 
For  the  night  so  beautiful, 
And  longing  for  those  far-off  spheres  ? 

Loved  one  of  my  youth  thou  wast, 
Of  my  merry  youth, 
And  I  see, 
Tearfully, 

All  the  fair  and  sunny  past, 
All  its  openness  and  truth, 
Ever  fresh  and  green  in  thee 
As  the  moss  is  in  the  sea. 

Thy  little  heart,  that  hath  with  love 
Grown  colored  like  the  sky  above, 
On  which  thou  lookest  ever, — 
Can  it  know 
All  the  woe 

Of  hope  for  what  returneth  never, 
All  the  sorrow  and  the  longing 
To  these  hearts  of  ours  belonging  I 
Out  on  it  I  no  foolish  pining 


THE  MOON.  275 

For  the  sky 

Dims  thine  eye, 

Or  for  the  stars  so  calmly  shining  , 
Like  thee  let  this  soul  of  mine 
Take  hue  from  that  wherefor  I  long, 
Self-stayed  and  high,  serene  and  strong, 
Not  satisfied  with  hoping — but  divine. 

Violet !  dear  Violet ! 

Thy  blue  eyes  are  only  wet 
With  joy  and  love  of  him  who  sent  thee, 
And,  for  the  fulfilling  sense 
Of  that  glad  obedience 
Which  made  thee  all  which  Nature  meant  th«e! 


THE  MOON. 

MY  soul  was  like  the  sea 
Before  the  moon  was  made ; 
Moaning  in  vague  immensity, 
Of  its  own  strength  afraid, 
TJnrestful  and  unstaid. 

Through  every  rift  it  foamed  in  vain 

About  its  earthly  prison, 
Seeking  some  unknown  thing  in  pain, 
And  sinking  restless  back  again, 

For  yet  no  moon  had  risen  : 
Its  only  voice  a  vast  dumb  moan 
Of  utterless  anguish  speaking, 
It  lay  unhopefully  alone 
And  lived  but  in  an  aimless  seeking. 


THE  FATHERLAND. 

So  was  my  soul :  but  when  't  was  full 

Of  unrest  to  overloading, 
A  voice  of  something  beautiful 

Whispered  a  dim  foreboding, 
And  yet  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  low, 
It  had  not  more  of  joy  than  woe  : 
And,  as  the  sea  doth  oft  lie  still, 

Making  his  waters  meet, 
As  if  by  an  unconscious  will, 

For  the  moon's  silver  feet, 
Like  some  serene,     nwinking  eye 
That  wa;.ts  a  certain  destiny, 
So  lay  my  soul  within  mine  eyes 
When  thou  its  sovereign  moon  didst  rise. 

And  now,  however  its  waves  above 

May  toss  and  seem  uneaseful, 
One  strong,  eternal  law  of  love 

With  guidance  sure  and  peaceful, 
As  calm  and  natural  as  breath 
Moves  its  great  deeps  through  Life  and  Death. 


THE  FATHERLAND. 

WHERE  is  the  true  man's  fatherland  ? 

Is  it  where  he  by  chance  is  born  ? 

Doth  not  the  free- winged  spirit  scorn 
In  such  pent  borders  to  be  spanned  ? 

Oh  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 

As  the  blue  heavens  wide  and  free  ! 

Is  it  alone  where  freedom  is, 

Where  God  is  God  and  man  is  man  ? 


A  PARABLE.  277 

Doth  he  not  claim  a  broader  span 
For  the  soul's  love  of  home  than  this  ? 
Oh  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 

tJ 

As  the  blue  heavens  wide  and  free  ! 

Where'er  a  human  heart  doth  wear 

Joy's  myrtle  wreath,  or  sorrow's  gyves, 

Where'er  a  human  spirit  strives 
After  a  life  more  pure  and  fair, 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand  I 

His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 

Where'er  a  single  slave  doth  pine, 

Where'er  one  man  may  help  another — 
Thank  God  for  such  a  birthright,  brother  ! 

That  spot  of  earth  is  thine  and  mine  ; 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand  ! 
His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 


A  PARABLE. 

WORN  and  footsore  was  the  Prophet 
When  he  reached  the  holy  hill ; 

"  God  has  left  the  earth,"  he  murmured, 
"  Here  his  presence  lingers  still. 

*'  God  of  all  the  olden  prophets, 
Wilt  thou  talk  with  me  no  more  ? 

Have  I  not  as  truly  loved  thee 
As  thy  chosen  ones  of  yore  ? 

"  Hear  me,  guider  of  my  fathers, 
Lo,  an  humble  heart  is  mine  ; 

By  thy  mercy  I  beseech  thee, 
Grant  thy  servant  but  a  sign  1 " 


278  A  -PARABLE. 

Bowing  then  his  head,  he  listened 
For  an  answer  to  his  prayer  ; 

No  loud  burst  of  thunder  followed, 
Not  a  murmur  stirred  the  air  : 

But  the  tuft  of  moss  before  him 

Opened  while  he  waited  yet, 
And  from  out  the  rock's  hard  bosom 

Sprang  a  tender  violet. 

"  God  !  I  thank  thee,"  said  the  Prophet, 
"  Hard  of  heart  and  blind  was  I, 

Looking  to  the  holy  mountain 
For  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

"  Still  thou  speakest  with  thy  children 

Freely  as  in  Eld  sublime, 
Humbleness  and  love  and  patience 

Give  dominion  over  Time. 

"  Had  I  trusted  in  my  nature, 
And  had  faith  in  lowly  things, 

Thou  thyself  wouldst  then  have  sought  me, 
And  set  free  my  spirit's  wings. 

"  But  I  looked  for  signs  and  wonders 
That  o'er  men  should  give  me  sway ; 

Thirsting  to  be  more  than  mortal, 
I  was  even  less  than  clay. 

"  Ere  I  entered  on  my  journey, 

As  I  girt  my  loins  to  start, 
Ran  to  me  my  little  daughter, 

The  beloved  of  my  heart ; 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND'S  CHILD. 

"  In  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 

Like  to  this  as  like  may  be, 
Which  beside  my  very  threshold 

She  had  plucked  and  brought  to  me." 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND'S  CHILD. 

DEATH  never  came  so  nigh  to  me  before, 

Nor  showed  me  his  mild  face  :     Oft  I  had  mused 

Of  calm  and  peace  and  deep  forgetfulness, 

Of  folded  hands,  closed  eyes,  and  heart  at  rest, 

And  slumber  sound  beneath  a  flowery  turf, 

Of  faults  forgotten,  and  an  inner  place 

Kept  sacred  for  us  in  the  heart  of  friends ; 

But  these  were  idle  fancies  satisfied 

With  the  mere  husk  of  this  great  Mystery, 

And  dwelling  in  the  outward  shows  of  things. 

Heaven  is  not  mounted  to  on  wings  of  dreams, 

Nor  doth  the  unthankful  happiness  of  youth 

Aim  thitherward,  but  floats  from  bloom  to  bloom, 

With  earth's  warm  patch  of  sunshine  well  content : 

'T  is  sorrow  builds  the  shining  ladder  up 

Whose  golden  rounds  are  our  calamities, 

Whereon  our  firm  feet  planting,  nearer  God 

The  spirit  climbs,  and  hath  its  eyes  unsealed. 

True  is  it  that  Death's  face  seems  stern  and  cold, 
When  he  is  sent  to  summon  those  we  love, 
But  all  God's  angels  come  to  us  disguised  ; 
Sorrow  and  sickness,  poverty  and  death, 
One  after  other  lift  their  frowning  maska, 
And  we  behold  the  seraph's  face  beneath, 
All  radiant  with  the  glory  and  the  calm 


280 

Of  having  looked  upon  the  smile  of  God. 

With  every  anguish  of  our  earthly  past 

The  spirit's  sight  grows  clearer ;  this  was  meant 

When  Jesus  touched  the  blind  man's  lids  with  clay. 

Life  is  the  jailer,  Death  the  angel  sent 

To  draw  the  unwilling  bolts  and  set  us  free. 

He  flings  not  ope  the  ivory  gate  of  Eest — 

Only  the  fallen  spirit  knocks  at  that — 

But  to  benigner  regions  beckons  us, 

To  destinies  of  more  rewarded  toil. 

In  the  hushed  chamber,  sitting  by  the  dead, 

It  grates  on  us  to  hear  the  flood  of  life 

Whirl  rustling  onward,  senseless  of  our  loss. 

The  bee  hums  on  ;  around  the  blossomed  vine 

Whirs  the  light  hurnm ing-bird  ;  the  cricket  chirps; 

The  locust's  shrill  alarum  stings  the  ear  ; 

Hard  by,  the  cock  shouts  lustily  ;  from  farm  to  farm, 

His  cheery  brothers,  telling  of  the  sun, 

Answer,  till  far  away  the  joyance  dies  ; 

We  never  knew  before  how  God  had  filled 

The  summer  air  with  happy  living  sounds  ; 

All  round  us  seems  an  overplus  of  life, 

And  yet  the  one  dear  heart  lies  cold  and  still. 

It  is  most  strange,  when  the  great  Miracle 

Hath  for  our  sakes  been  done  ;  when  we  have  had 

Our  inwardest  experience  of  God, 

When  with  his  presence  still  the  room  expands, 

And  is  awed  after  him,  that  naught  is  changed, 

That  Nature's  face  looks  unacknowledging, 

And  the  mad  world  still  dances  heedless  on 

After  its  butterflies,  and  gives  no  sigh. 

7T  is  hard  at  first  to  see  it  all  aright  j 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FKIEND'S  CHILD.       281 

In  vain  Faitli  blows  her  trump  to  summon  back 
Her  scattered  troop  ;  yet,  through  the  clouded  glass 
Of  our  own  bitter  tears,  we  learn  to  look 
Undazzled  on  the  kindness  of  God's  face  ; 
Earth  is  too  dark,  and  Heaven  alone  shines  through. 

How    changed,   dear    friend,   are  thy  part  and    thy 

child's  ! 

He  bends  above  thy  cradle  now,  or  holds 
His  warning  finger  out  to  be  thy  guide  ; 
Thou  art  the  nursling  now  ;  he  watches  thee 
Slow  learning,  one  by  one,  the  secret  things 
Which  are  to  him  used  sights  of  every  day  ; 
He  smiles  to  see  thy  wondering  glances  con 
The  grass  and  pebbles  of  the  spirit  world, 
To  thee  miraculous  ;  and  he  will  teach 
Thy  knees  their  due  observances  of  prayer. 

Children  are  God's  apostles,  day  by  day, 

Sent  forth  to  preach  of  love,  and  hope,  and  peace ; 

NOT  hath  thy  babe  his  mission  left  undone. 

To  me,  at  least,  his  going  hence  hath  given 

Serener  thoughts  and  nearer  to  the  skies, 

And  opened  a  new  fountain  in  my  heart 

For  thee,  my  friend,  and  all  :  and  oh,  if  Death 

More  near  approaches,  meditates,  and  clasps 

Even  now  some  dearer,  more  reluctant  hand, 

God,  strengthen  thou  my  faith,  that  I  may  see 

That 't  is  thine  angel  who,  with  loving  haste, 

Unto  the  service  of  the  inner  shrine 

Doth  waken  thy  beloved  with  a  kiss  I 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.,  Sept.  3, 1844. 


A.  L.  Burt's  Catalogue  of  Books  for 
Young  People  by  Popular  Writers,  52- 
58  Duane  Street,  New  York  >«  ^  MZ 


BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

Joe's  Luck:    A  Boy's  Adventures  in  California.    By 

HORATIO  ALGER,  JR.    13mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

The  story  Is  chock  full  of  stirring  Incidents,  while  the  amusing  situ 
ations  are  furnished  by  Joshua  Bickford,  from  Pumpkin  Hollow,  and  the 
fellow  who  modestly  styles  himself  the  "Rip- tall  Roarer,  from  Pike  Co., 
Missouri."  Mr.  Alger  never  writes  a  poor  book,  and  "Joe's  Luck"  is  cer 
tainly  one  of  his  best. 

Tom  the  Bootblack;  or,   The  Eoad  to   Success.     By 

HORATIO  ALGER,  JR.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

A  bright,  enterprising  lad  was  Tom  the  Bootblack.  He  was  not  at  all 
ashamed  of  kis  humble  calling,  though  always  on  the  lookout  to  better 
himself.  The  lad  started  for  Cincinnati  to  look  up  his  heritage.  Mr. 
Grey,  the  uncle,  did  not  hesitate  to  employ  a  ruffian  to  kill  the  lad.  The 
plan  failed,  and  Gilbert  Grey,  once  Tom  the  bootblack,  came  Into  a  com 
fortable  fortune.  This  Is  one  of  Mr.  Alger's  best  stories. 

Dan  the  Newsboy.    By   HORATIO   ALGER,   JR.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Dan  Mordaunt  and  his  mother  live  In  a  poor  tenement,  and  the  lad  la 
pluckily  trying  to  make  ends  meet  by  selling  papers  in  the  streets  of  New 
York.  A  little  heiress  of  six  years  Is  confided  to  the  care  of  the  Mor- 
daunts.  The  child  is  kidnapped  and  Dan  tracks  the  child  to  the  house 
where  she  is  hidden,  and  rescues  her.  The  wealthy  aunt  of  the  little 
heiress  is  so  delighted  with  Dan's  courage  and  many  good  qualities 
that  she  adopts  him  as  her  heir. 

Tony  the  Hero:    A    Brave    Boy's   Adventure  with  a 

Tramp.    By  HORATIO  ALGER,  JR.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Tony,  a  sturdy  bright-eyed  boy  of  fourteen,  Is  under  the  control  of 
Rudolph  Rugg,  a  thorough  rascal.  After  much  abuse  Tony  runs  away 
and  gets  a  job  as  stable  boy  in  a  country  hotel.  Tony  Is  heir  to  a 
large  estate.  Rudolph  for  a  consideration  hunts  up  Tony  and  throws 
him  down  a  deep  well.  Of  course  Tony  escapes  from  the  fate  provided 
for  him,  and  by  a  brave  act,  a  rich  friend  secures  his  rights  and  Tony 
is  prosperous.  A  very  entertaining  book. 

The  Errand  Boy;  or,  How  Phil  Brent  Won  Success. 

By  HORATIO  ALGER,  JR.    12mo,  cloth  Illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

The  career  of  "The  Errand  Boy"  embraces  the  city  adventures  of  a 
•mart  country  lad.  Philip  was  brought  up  by  a  kind-hearted  innkeeper 
named  Brent.  The  death  of  Mrs.  Brent  paved  the  way  for  the  hero's 
subsequent  troubles.  A  retired  merchant  In  New  York  secures  him  the 
Bitnation  of  errand  boy,  and  thereafter  stands  as  his  friend. 

Tom  Temple's  Career.    By  HORATIO  ALGER,  JR.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Tom  Temple  is  a  bright,  self-reliant  lad.  He  leaves  Plympton  village 
to  seek  work  In  New  York,  whence  he  undertakes  an  Important  mission 
to  California.  Some  of  his  adventures  In  the  far  west  are  so  startling  that 
the  reader  will  scarcely  close  the  book  until  the  last  page  shall  have  been 
reached.  The  tale  Is  written  in  Mr.  Alger's  most  fascinating  style. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUST.  62-58  Duane  Street.  New  York. 


2       A.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOB  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 
BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

Frank  Fowler,  the  Cash  Boy.    By  HOEATIO  ALGEE,  JR. 

32ino,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Frank  Fowler,  a  poor  boy,  bravely  determines  to  make  a  living  for 
himself  and  his  foster-sister  Grace.  Coins  to  New  York  he  obtains  a 
situation  as  cash  boy  in  a  dry  goods  store.  He  renders  a  service  to  a 
wealthy  old  gentleman  who  takes  a  fancy  to  the  lad,  and  thereafter 
helps  the  lad  to  gain  success  and  fortune. 

Tom  Thatcher's   Fortune.     By    HOEATIO    ALGEE,  JR. 

12mo.  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Tom  Thatcher  is  a  brave,  ambitious,  unselfish  boy.  He  supports  his 
mother  and  sister  on  meagre  wages  earned  as  a  shoe-pegger  in  Johu 
Simpson's  factory.  Tom  is  discharged  from  the  factory  and  starts  over 
land  for  California.  He  meets  with  many  adventures.  The  story  is  told 
In  a  way  which  has  made  Mr.  Alger's  name  a  household  word  in  so  many 
homes. 

The  Train    Boy.    By    HOEATIO    ALGEE,    JE.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Paul  Palmer  was  a  wide-awake  boy  of  sixteen  who  supported  hia  mother 
and  sister  by  selling  books  and  papers  on  the  Chicago  and  Milwaukee 
Railroad.  He  detects  a  young  man  in  the  act  of  picking  the  pocket  of  a 
young  lady.  In  a  railway  accident  many  passengers  are  killed,  but  Paiil 
is  fortunate  enough  to  assist  a  Chicago  merchant,  who  out  of  gratitude 
takes  him  into  his  employ.  Paul  succeeds  with  tact  and  judgment  and 
is  well  started  on  the  road  to  business  prominence. 

Mark  Mason's  Victory.     The  Trials  and  Triumphs  of 

a  Telegraph  Boy.    By  HOHATIO  ALGER,  JB.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price 

$1.00. 

Mark  Mason,  the  telegraph  boy,  was  a  6tcrdy,  honest  lad,  who  pluckilj 
won  his  way  to  success  by  his  honest  manly  efforts  under  many  diffi 
culties.  This  story  will  please  the  very  large  class  of  boys  who  regard 
Mr.  Alger  as  a  favorite  author. 

A  Debt  of  Honor.     The  Story  of  Gerald  Lane's  Success 

in  the  Far  West.    By  HORATIO  ALGER,  JR.     12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  pries 

#1.00. 

The  story  of  Gerald  Lane  and  the  account  of  the  many  trials  and  dis 
appointments  which  he  passed  through  bofoi  he  attained  success,  will 
Interest  all  boys  who  have  read  tlie  previous  stories  of  this  delightful 
author. 

Ben  Bruce.     Scenes  in  the  Life  of  a  Bowery  Newsboy. 

By  HORATIO  ALGER,  JR.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Ben  Bruce  was  a  brave,  manly,  generous  boy.  The  story  of  his  efforts, 
and  many  seeming  failures  and  disappointments,  and  his  final  success,  are 
most  interesting  to  all  readers.  The  tale  is  written  in  Mr.  Alger's 
most  fascinating  style. 

The  Castaways;  or,  On  the  Florida  Eeefs.     By  JAMES 

OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

This  tale  smacks  of  the  salt  sea.  From  the  moment  that  the  Sen 
Queen  leaves  lower  New  York  bay  till  the  breeze  leaves  her  bocalmed  off 
the  coast  of  Florida,  one  can  almost  hear  the  whistle  of  the  wind 
through  her  rigging,  the  creak  of  her  straining  cordage  as  she  heels  to 
the  leeward.  The  adventures  of  Ben  Clark,  the  hero  of  the  storv  and 
Jake  the  cook,  cannot  fall  to  charm  the  reader.  As  a  writer  for  young 
people  Mr.  Otis  is  a  prime  favorite. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  HURT,  62-68  Duane  Street,  New  York, 


A.  L.  BURIES  BOOKS  FOR  YOUlSG  PEOPLE.          3 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

Wrecked  on  Spider  Island;  or,  How  Ned  Rogers  Found 

the  Treasure.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Ned  llogers,  a  "down-east"  plucky  lad  ships  as  cabin  boy  to  earn 
a  livelihood.  Ned  Is  marooned  on  Spider  Island,  and  while  there  dis 
covers  a  wreck  submerged  in  the  sand,  and  finds  a  considerable  amount 
•it  treasure.  The  capture  of  the  treasure  and  the  Incidents  of  the 
voyage  serve  to  make  as  entertaining  a  story  of  sea-life  as  the  most 
captious  boy  could  desire. 

The  Search  for  the  Silver  City :  A  Tale  of  Adventure  in 

Yucatan.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  81.00. 

Two  lads,  Teddy  Wright  and  Neal  Emery,  embark  on  the  steam 
yacht  Day  Dream  for  a  cruise  to  the  tropics.  The  yacht  is  destroyed 
by  fire,  and  then  the  boat  is  cast  upon  the  coast  of  Yucatan.  They 
hear  of  the  wonderful  Silver  City,  of  the  Chan  Santa  Cruz  Indians, 
and  with  the  help  of  a  faithful  Indian  ally  carry  off  a  number  of  the 
golden  Images  from  the  temples.  Pursued  with  relentless  vigor  at  last 
their  escape  is  effected  in  an  astonishing  manner.  The  story  Is  so 
full  of  exciting  incidents  that  the  reader  is  quite  carried  away  with 
the  novelty  and  realism  of  the  narrative. 

A    Runaway    Brig;  or,    An    Accidental    Cruise.      By 

JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

This  is  a  sea  tale,  and  the  reader  can  look  out  upon  the  wide  shimmer 
ing  sea  as  it  flashes  back  the  sunlight,  and  imagine  himself  afloat  with 
Harry  Vandyne,  Walter  Morse,  Jim  Libby  and  that  old  shell-back,  Bob 
Brace,  on  the  brig  Bonita.  The  boys  discover  a  mysterious  document 
which  enables  them  to  find  a  buried  treasure.  They  are  stranded  on 
an  island  and  at  last  are  rescued  with  the  treasure.  The  boys  are  sure 
to  be  fascinated  with  this  entertaining  story. 

The    Treasure    Finders:     A    Bo/s    Adventures    in 

Nicaragua.    By  JAMBS  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Roy  and  Dean  Coloney,  with  their  guide  Tongla,  leave  their  father's 
Indigo  plantation  to  visit  the  wonderful  ruins  of  an  ancient  city.  The 
boys  eagerly  explore  the  temples  of  an  extinct  race  and  discover  three 
golden  images  cunningly  hidden  away.  They  escape  with  the  greatest 
difficulty.  Eventually  they  reach  safety  with  their  golden  prizes.  We 
doubt  if  there  ever  was  written  a  more  entertaining  story  than  "The 
Treasure  Finders." 

Jack,  the  Hunchback.    A  Story  of  the  Coast  of  Maine. 

By  JAMES  OTIS.    Price  $1.00. 

This  is  the  story  of  a  little  hunchback  who  lived  on  Cape  Elizabeth, 
on  the  coast  of  Maine.  His  trials  and  successes  are  most  interesting. 
From  first  to  last  nothing  stays  the  interest  of  the  narrative.  It  bears  us 
along  as  on  a  stream  whose  current  varies  in  direction,  but  never  loses 
its  force. 

With  Washington  at  Monmouth:   A   Story   of   Three 

Philadelphia  Boys.     By  JAMES  OTIS.     12mo,   ornamental  cloth,  olivine 

edges,  illustrated,  price '$1.50. 

Three  Philadelphia  lads  assist  the  American  spies  and  make  regular 
and  frequent  visits  to  Valley  Forge  in  the  Winter  while  the  British 
occupied  the  city.  The  story  abounds  with  pictures  of  Colonial  life 
skillfully  drawn,  and  the  glimpses  of  Washington's  soldiers  which  are 
given  shown  that  the  work  has  not  been  hastily  done,  or  without  con 
siderable  study.  The  story  Is  wholesome  and  patriotic  In  tone,  as  are 
all  of  Mr.  Otis'  works. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUKT,  52-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


4       A.  L.  Burr's  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 
BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

With  Lafayette  at  Yorktown:  A  Story  of  How  Two 

Boys  Joined  the  Continental  Army.    By  JAMES  Ons.    12mo,  ornamental 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  illustrated,  price  $1.50. 

Two  lads  from  Portmtuth,  N.  H.,  attempt  to  enlist  In  the  Colonial 
Army,  and  are  given  employment  as  spies.  There  Is  no  lack  of  exciting 
Incidents  which  the  youthful  reader  craves,  but  It  is  healthful  excite 
ment  brimming  with  facts  which  every  boy  should  be  familiar  with, 
and  while  the  reader  is  following  the  adventures  of  Ben  Jaffrays  and 
Ned  Allen  he  is  acquiring  a  fund  of  historical  lore  which  will  remain 
in  his  memory  long  after  that  which  he  has  memorized  from  text 
books  has  been  forgotten. 

At  the  Siege  of  Havana.     Being  the  Experiences  of 

Three  Boys  Serving  under  Israel  Putnam  in  1762.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo, 

ornamental  cloth,  olivine  edges,  illustrated,  price  $1.50. 

"At  the  Siege  of  Havana"  deals  with  that  portion  of  the  island's 
history  when  the  English  king  captured  the  capital,  thanks  to  the 
assistance  given  by  the  troops  from  New  England,  led  in  part  by  Col. 
Israel  Putnam. 

The  principal  characters  are  Darius  Lunt,  the  lad  who,  represented  as 
telling  the  story,  and  his  comrades,  Robert  Clement  and  Nicholas 
Vallet.  Colonel  Putnam  also  figures  to  considerable  extent,  necessarily. 
In  the  tale,  and  the  whole  forms  one  of  the  most  readable  stories  founded  on 
historical  facts. 

The  Defense  of  Fort  Henry.      A  Story  of  Wheeling 

Creek  iu  1777.    By  JAMES  Ons.    12mo,  ornamental  cloth,  olivine  edges, 

illustrated,  price  $1.50. 

Nowhere  in  the  history  of  our  country  can  be  found  more  heroic  or 
thrilling  incidents  than  in  the  story  of  those  brave  men  and  women 
who  founded  the  settlement  of  Wheeling  in  the  Colony  of  Virginia.  Tin- 
recital  of  what  Elizabeth  Zanc  did  is  in  itself  as  heroic  a  story  as  onn 
be  Imagined.  The  wondrous  bravery  displayed  by  Major  McCnlloch 
and  his  gallant  comrades,  the  sufferings  of  the  colonists  and  their  sacrifice 
of  blood  and  life,  stir  the  blood  of  old  as  well  as  young  readers. 

The  Capture  of  the  Laughing  Mary.     A  Story  of  Throe 

New  York  Boys  in  1776.    By  JAMES  Ons.    12mo,  ornamental  cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  $1.50. 

"During  the  British  occupancy  of  New  York,  at  the  outbreak  of  the 
Revolution,  a  Yankee  lad  hears  of  the  plot  to  take  General  Washington's 
person,  and  calls  in  two  companions  to  assist  the  patriot  cause.  They 
do  some  astonishing  things,  and.  Incidentally,  lay  the  way  for  an 
American  navy  later,  by  the  exploit  which  gives  its  name  to  the 
work.  Mr.  Otis'  books  are  too  well  known  to  require  any  particular 
commendation  to  the  young." — Evening  Post. 

With  Warren  at  Bunker  Hill.    A  Story  of  the  Siege  of 

Boston.     By  JAMES  OTIS.     12mo.  ornametnal  cloth,  olivine  edges,  illoc 

trated,  price  $1.50. 

"This  is  a  tale  of  the  siege  of  Boston,  which  opens  on  the  day  after 
the  doings  at  Lexington  and  Concord,  with  a  description  of  home  life 
In  Boston,  introduces  the  reader  to  the  British  camp  at  Charlestown, 
shows  Gen.  Warren  at  home,  describes  what  a  boy  thought  of  the 
battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  and  closes  with  the  raising  of  the  siege.  The 
three  heroes,  George  Wentworth.,  Ben  Scarlett  and  an  old  ropemaker. 
Incur  the  enmity  of  a  young  Tory,  who  causes  them  many  adventures 
the  boys  will  like  to  read." — Detroit  Free  Presg,  • 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUILT,  58-68  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.       5 
BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

With  the  Swamp  Fox.    The  Story  of  General  Marion's 

Spies.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $  1.00. 

This  story  deals  with  General  Francis  Marlon's  heroic  struggle  In  the 
Carolinas.  General  Marlon's  arrival  to  take  command  of  these  brave 
men  and  rough  riders  Is  pictured  as  a  boy  might  have  seen  It.  and 
although  the  story  is  devoted  to  what  the  lads  did,  the  Swamp  Fox 
Is  ever  present  in  the  mind  of  the  reader. 

On  the  Kentucky  Frontier.    A  Story  of  the  Fighting 

Pioneers  of  the  West.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1. 

In   the   history   of  our  country   there  Is  no   more   thrilling   story   than 

that  of  the  w«rk  done  on  the  Mississippi  river  by  a  handful  of  frontiers- 

-  men.     Mr.    Otis    takes    the    reader   on    that   famous   expedition   from   the 

arrival    of    Major    Clarke's    force    at    Corn    Island,    until    Kaskaskia    was 

captured.     He    relates    that    part    of    Simon    Kenton's   life    history    which 

is   not   usually   touched   upon   either   by   the   historian  or  the   story   teller. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  entertaining  books  for  young  people  which  has 

been    published. 

Sarah  Dillard's  Hide.      A   Story  of  South  Carolina  in 

in  1780.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  book  deals  with  the  Carolinas  in  1780,  giving  a  wealth  of  detail  of 
the  Mountain  Men  who  struggled  so  valiantly  against  the  king's  troops. 
Major  Ferguson  is  the  prominent  British  officer  of  the  story,  which  is 
told  as  though  coming  from  a  youth  who  experienced  these  adventures. 
In  this  way  the  famous  ride  of  Sarah  Dillard  Is  brought  out  as  an 
incident  of  the  plot." — Boston  Journal. 

A  Tory  Plot.     A  Story  of  the  Attempt  to  Kill  General 

Washington.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"  'A  Tory  Plot'  is  the  story  of  two  lads  who  overhear  something 
of  the  plot  originated  during  the  Revolution  by  Gov.  Tryon  to  capture 
or  murder  Washington.  They  communicate  their  knowledge  to  Gen. 
Putnam  and  are  commissioned  by  him  to  play  the  role  of  detectives 
In  the  matter.  They  do  so,  and  meet  with  many  adventures  and  hair 
breadth  escapes.  The  boys  are,  of  course,  mythical,  but  they  serve  to  en 
able  the  author  to  put  into  very  attractive  shape  much  valuable  knowledge 
concerning  one  phase  of  the  Revolution." — Pittsburgh  Times. 

A  Traitor's  Escape.     A  Story  of  the  Attempt  to  Seize 

Benedict  Arnold.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  Is  a  tale  with  stirring  scenes  depicted  In  each  chapter,  bringing 
clearly  before  the  mind  the  glorious  deeds  of  the  early  settlers  in  this 
country.  In  an  historical  work  dealing  with  this  country's  past,  no 
plot  can  hold  the  attention  closer  than  this  one,  which  describes  the 
attempt  and  partial  success  of  Benedict  Arnold's  escape  to  New  York, 
where  he  remained  as  the  guest  of  Sir  Henry  Clinton.  All  those  who 
actually  figured  in  the  arrest  of  the  traitor,  as  well  as  Gen.  Washing 
ton,  are  included  as  characters." — Albany  Union. 

A  Cruise  with  Paul  Jones.     A  Story  of  Naval  Warfare 

in  1776.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  story  takes  up  that  portion  of  Paul  Jones'  adventuroms  life 
When  he  was  hovering  off  the  British  coast,  watching  for  an  oppor 
tunity  to  strike  the  enemy  a  blow.  It  deals  more  particularly  with 
his  descent  upon  Whitehaven,.  the  seizure  of  Lady  Selkirk's  plate,  and 
the  famous  battle  with  the  Drake.  The  boy  who  figures  in  the  tale 
Is  one  who  was  taken  from  a  derelict  by  Paul  Jones  shortly  after  this 
particular  cruise  was  begun." — Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,   or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  By  the 
publisher.  A.  L.  BUE.T,   52-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


6       A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOE  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 
BOOKS  FOR  BOYST~  ~7~ 

Corporal  Lige's  Recruit.     A  Story  of  Crown  Point  and 

Ticonderoga.    By  JAMES  OTIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1,00. 

"In  'Corporal  Lige's  Kecrult,'  Mr.  Otis  tells  the  amusing  story  of  an 
old  soldier,  proud  of  his  record,  who  had  served  the  king  in  '58.  and  who 
takes  the  lad,  Isaac  Rice,  as  his  'personal  recruit.'  The  lad  acquits 
himself  superbly.  Col.  Ethan  Allen  'in  the  name  of  God  and  the  con 
tinental  congress,'  infuses  much  martial  spirit  into  the  narrative,  which 
will  arouse  the  keenest  Interest  as  It  proceeds.  Crown  Point,  Ticon 
deroga,  Benedict  Arnold  and  numerous  other  famous  historical  names 
appear  in  this  dramatic  tale."  —  Boston  Globe. 

Morgan,  the  Jersey  Spy.  A  Story  of  the  Siege  of  York- 

town  in  1781.  By  JAMES  OTIS.  12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"The  two  lads  who  are  utilized  by  the  author  to  emphasize  the  details 
of  the  work  done  during  that  memorable  time  were  real  boys  who  livi'd 
on  the  banks  of  the  York  river,  and  who  aided  the  Jersey  sp3r  in  his 
dangerous  occupation.  In  the  guise  of  fishermen  the  lads  visit  York- 
town,  are  suspected  of  being  spies,  and  put  under  arrest.  Morgan  risks 
his  life  to  save  them.  The  final  escape,  the  thrilling  encounter  with  a 
squad  of  red  coats,  when  they  are  exposed  equally  to  the  bullets  of 
friends  and  foes,  told  in  a  masterly  fashion,  makes  of  this  volume  one 
of  the  most  entertaining  books  of  the  year."  —  Inter-Ocean. 

The  Young  Scout:    The  Story  of  a  West  Point  Lieu 

tenant.    By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS.    12uio,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

The  crafty  Apache  chief  Gerouimo  but  a  few  years  ago  was  the 
most  terrible  scourge  of  the  southwest  border.  The  author  has  woven, 
In  a  tale  of  thrilling  interest,  all  the  incidents  of  Geronimo's  last  raid. 
The  hero  is  Lieutenant  James  Decker,  a  recent  graduate  of  West  Point. 
Ambitious  to  distinguish  himself  the  young  man  takes  many  a  desperate 
chance  against  the  enemy  and  on  more  than  one  occasion  narrowly 
escapes  with  his  life.  In  our  opinion  Mr.  Ellis  Is  the  best  writer  of 
Indian  stories  now  before  the  public. 

Adrift  in  the  Wilds:     The  Adventures  of  Two  Ship 

wrecked  Boys.    By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS.    12nio,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Elwood  Brandon  and  Howard  Lawrence  are  en  route  for  San  Fran 
cisco.  Off  the  coast  of  California  the  steamer  takes  fire.  The  two  boys 
reach  the  shore  with  several  of  the  passengers.  Young  Brandon  be 
comes  separated  from  his  party  and  Is  captured  by  hostile  Indians, 
but  is  afterwards  rescued.  This  is  a  very  entertaining  narrative  of 
Southern  California. 


A  Young  Hero;  or,  Fighting  to  Win.     By  EDWARD  S. 


, 

ELLIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1. 


Lost  in  the  Rockies.     A  Story  of  Adventure  in  the 

Rocky  Mountains.    By  EDWARD  S.  Ei.r.rs.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1. 

Incident  succeeds  Incident,  and  adventure  Is  piled  upon  adventure, 
and  at  the  end  the  reader,  be  he  boy  or  mini,  will  have  experienced 
breathless  enjoyment  In  this  romantic  story  describing  many  adventures  In 
the  Rockies  and  among  the  Indians. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postwifd  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUST,  52-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.          7 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

A  Jaunt  Through  Java:    The  Story  of  a  Journey  to 

the  Sacred  Mountain.    By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated, 

price  $1.00. 

The  Interest  of  this  story  Is  found  hi  the  thrilling  adventures  of 
two  cousins,  Hermon  and  Eustace  Hadley,  on  their  trip  acrosss  the  island 
of  Java,  from  Samarang  to  the  Sacred  Mountain.  In  a  land  where  the 
Royal  Bengal  tiger,  the  rhinoceros,  and  other  fierce  beasts  are  to  be 
met  with,  it  is  but  natural  that  the  heroes  of  this  book  should  have  a 
lively  experience.  There  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  book. 

The  Boy  Patriot.     A  Story  of  Jack,  the  Young  Friend 

of  Washington.    By  EDWARD  S.  ELLIS.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  illus 
trated,  price  $1.50. 

"There  are  adventures  of  all  kinds  for  the  hero  and  his  friends,  whose 
pluck  and  ingenuity  in  extricating  themselves  from  awkward  fixes  are 
always  equal  to  the  occasion.  It  is  an  excellent  story  full  of  honest, 
manly,  patriotic  efforts  on  the  part  of  the  hero.  A  very  vivid  description 
of  the  battle  of  Trenton  is  also  found  in  this  story." — Journal  of 
Education. 

A  Yankee  Lad's  Pluck.     How  Bert  Larkin  Saved  his 

Father's  Eanch  in  Porto  Rico.    By  WM.  P.  CHIPMAN.    12mo,  cloth,  illus 
trated,  price  $1.00. 

"Bert  Larkin,  the  hero  of  the  story,  early  excites  our  admiration, 
and  is  altogether  a  fine  character  such  as  boys  will  delight  in,  whilst 
the  story  of  his  numerous  adventures  is  very  graphically  told.  This 
will,  we  think,  prove  one  of  the  most  popular  boys'  books  this  season." — 
Gazette. 

A  Brave  Defense.    A   Story  of  the   Massacre  at   Fort 

Qriswold  in  1781.    By  WILLIAM  P.  CHIPMAN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price 

$1.00. 

Perhaps  no  more  gallant  fight  against  fearful  odds  took  place  during 
the  Revolutionary  War  than  that  at  Port  Griswold,  Groton  Heights,  Conn., 
in  1781.  The  boys  are  real  boys  who  were  actually  on  the  muster  rolls, 
either  at  Fort  Trumbull  on  the  New  London  side,  or  of  Fort  Griswold  on 
the  Groton  side  of  the  Thames.  The  youthful  reader  who  follows  Halsey 
Sanford  and  Levl  Dart  and  Tom  Malleson,  and  their  equally  brave  com 
rades,  through  their  thrilling  adventures  will  be  learning  something  more 
than  historical  facts;  they  will  be  imbibing  lessons  of  fidelity,  of  bravery, 
of  heroism,  and  of  manliness,  which  must  prove  serviceable  in  the  arena 
of  life. 

The  Young  Minuteman.    A  Story  of  the  Capture  of 

General  Prescott  in  1777.    By  WILLIAM  P.  CHIPMAN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated, 

price  $1.00. 

This  story  is  based  upon  actual  events  which  occurred  during  the  British 
occupation  of  the  waters  of  Narragansett  Bay.  Darius  Wale  and  William 
Northrop  belong  to,  "the  coast  patrol."  The  story  is  a  strong  one,  dealing 
only  with  actual  events.  There  is,  however,  no  lack  of  thrilling  adventure, 
and  every  lad  who  is  fortunate  enough  to  obtain  the  book  will  find  not 
only  that  his  historical  knowledge  is  increased,  but  that  his  own  patriotism 
and  love  of  country  are  deepened. 

For  the  Temple:    A  Tale  of  the  Fall  of  Jerusalem. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.  With  illustrations  by  S.  J.  SOLOMON.  12mo,  clotb,  olivina 
edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty's  graphic  prose  picture  of  the  hopeless  Jewish  resistance 
to  Roman  sway  adds  another  leaf  to  his  record  of  the  famous  wars  of 
the  world.  The  book  is  one  of  Mr.  Henty's  cleverest  efforts." — Graphic. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  th« 
publisher,  A.  L.  BURT,  62-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


ft 


A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 


BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

Roy  Gilbert's  Search:    A  Tale  of  the  Great  Lakes.     By 

WM.  P.  CHIPMAN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

A  deep  mystery  hangs  over  the  parentage  of  Eoy  Gilbert.  He  arranges 
with  two  schoolmates  to  make  a  tour  of  the  Great  Lakes  on  a  steam 
launch.  The  three  boys  visit  many  points  of  interest  on  the  lakes. 
Afterwards  the  lads  rescue  an  elderly  gentleman  and  a  lady  from  a  sink 
ing  yacht.  Later  on  the  boys  narrowly  escape  with  their  lives.  The 
hero  is  a  manly,  self-reliant  boy,  whose  adventures  will  be  followed 
with  Interest. 

The  Slate  Picker:     The  Story  of  a  Boy's  Life  in  the 

Coal  Mines.    By  HARRY  PRKNTICB.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

This  is  a  story  of  a  boy's  life  In  the  coal  mines  of  Pennsylvania. 
Ben  Burton,  the  hero,  had  a  hard  road  to  travel,  but  by  grit  and  energy 
he  advanced  step  by  step  until  be  found  himself  called  upon  to  fill  the 
position  of  chief  engineer  of  the  Kohinoor  Coal  Company.  This  is  a 
book  of  extreme  interest  to  every  boy  reader. 

The  Boy  Cruisers;  or,  Paddling  in  Florida.     By  ST. 

GEORGE  RATHBOENE.  12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00 
Andrew  George  and  Rowland  Carter  start  on  a  canoe  trip  along  the 
Gulf  coast,  from  Key  West  to  Tampa,  Florida.  Their  first  adventure 
Is  with  a  pair  of  rascals  who  steal  their  boats.  Next  they  run  Into 
a  gale  In  the  Gulf.  After  that  they  have  a  lively  time  with  alli 
gators  and  Andrew  gets  into  trouble  with  a  band  of  Seminole  Indians. 
Mr.  Rathborne  knows  just  how  to  interest  the  boys,  and  lads  who  are 
In  search  of  a  rare  treat  will  do  well  to  read  this  entertaining  story. 

Captured  by  Zulus:     A  Story  of  Trapping  in  Africa. 

By  HARRY  PRENTICE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

This  story  details  the  adventures  of  two  lads,  Dick  Elsworth  and  Bob 
Harvi-y,  In  the  wilds  of  South  Africa.  By  stratagem  the  Zulus  capture 
Dick  and  Bob  and  take  them  to  their  principal  kraal  or  village.  The 
lads  escape  death  by  dig  Ing  their  way  out  of  the  prison  hut  by  night. 
They  are  pursued,  but  the  Zulus  finally  give  up  pursuit.  Mr.  Prentice 
tells  exactly  how  wild-beast  collectors  secure  specimens  on  their  native 
stamping  grounds,  and  these  descriptions  make  very  entertaining  rending. 

Tom  the  Ready;  or,  Up  from  the  Lowest.    By  KAN- 

DOLPH  HILL.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1  00. 

This  Is  a  dramatic  narrative  of  the  unaided  rise  of  a  fearless,  ambi 
tious  boy  from  the  lowest  round  of  fortune's  ladder  to  wealth  and  the 
governorship  of  his  native  State.  Tom  Seacomb  begins  life  with  a  pur 
pose,  and  eventually  overcomes  those  who  oppose  him.  How  he  manages 
to  win  the  battle  is  told  by  Mr.  Hill  In  a  masterfrl  way  that  thrills 
the  reader  and  holds  his  attention  and  sympathy  to  the  end. 

Captain  Kidd's  Gold:  The  True  Story  of  an  Adven 
turous  Sailor  Boy.  By  JAMES  FRANKLIN  FITTS.  12mo,  cloth,  illustrated, 
price  $1.00. 

There  Is  something  fascinating  to  the  average  youth  in  the  very  idea 
of  buried  treasure.  A  vision  arises  before  his  eyes  of  swarthy  Portu 
guese  and  Spanish  rascals,  with  black  beards  and  gleaming  eyes.  There 
were  many  famous  sea  rovers,  but  none  more  celebrated  than  Capt.  Kldd. 
Paul  Jones  Garry  Inherits  a  document  which  locates  a  considerable 
treasure  burled  by  two  of  Kidd's  crew.  The  hero  of  this  book  is  an 
ambitious,  persevering  lad,  of  salt-water  New  England  ancestry,  and  hl« 
efforts  to  reach  the  island  and  secure  the  money  form  one  of  the  mo«t 
absorbing  tales  for  our  youth  that  has  come  from  the  press. ^^^ 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tbt 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUKT,  62-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOE  YOUNG  PEOPLE.          9 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

The  Boy  Explorers:    The  Adventures  of  Two  Boys  in 

Alaska.    By  HARRY  PRENTICK.    I2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Two  boys,  Raymond  and  Spencer  Manning,  travel  to  Alaska  to  Join 
their  father  In  search  of  their  uncle.  On  their  arrival  at  Sitka  the  boys 
With  an  Indian  guide  set  off  across  the  mountains.  The  trip  is  fraught 
with  periU  that  test  the  lads'  courage  to  the  utmost.  All  through  their 
exciting  adventures  the  lads  demonstrate  what  can  be  accomplished  by 
pluck  and  resolution,  and  their  experience  makes  one  of  the  most  in 
teresting  tales  ever  written. 

The   Island   Treasure;   or,    Harry    Parrel's   Fortune. 

By  FRANK  H.  CONVERSE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Harry  Darrel,  having  received  a  nautical  training  on  a  school-ship,  is 
bent  on  going  to  sea.  A  runaway  horse  changes  his  prospects.  Harry 
saves  Dr.  Gregg  from  drowning  and  afterward  becomes  sailing-master 
of  a  sloop  yacht.  Mr.  Converse's  stories  possess  a  charm  of  their  owu 
•which  is  appreciated  by  lads  who  delight  in  good  healthy  tales  that 
smack  of  salt  water. 

Guy  Harris:    The  Kunaway.    By  HARRY  CASTLEMON. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

Guy  Harris  lived  in  a  small  city  on  the  shore  of  one  of  the  Great 
Lakes.  He  is  persuaded  to  go  to  sea,  and  gets  a  glimpse  of  the  rough 
side  of  life  in  a  sailor's  boarding  house.  He  ships  on  a  vessel  and  for 
five  months  leads  a  hard  life.  The  book  will  interest  boys  generally 
on  account  of  its  graphic  style.  This  is  one  of  Castlemon's  most  attract 
ive  stories. 

Julian  Mortimer:    A  Brave  Boy's  Struggle  for  Home 

and  Fortune.    By  HARRY  CASTLEMON.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1. 

The  scene  of  the  story  lies  west  of  the  Mississippi  River,  In  the  days 
when  emigrants  made  their  perilous  way  across  the  great  plains  to  the 
land  of  gold.  There  is  an  attack  upon  the  wagon  train  by  a  large  party 
of  Indians.  Our  hero  is  a  "ad  of  uncommon  nerve  and  pluck.  Befriended 
by  a  stalwart  trapper,  a  real  rough  diamond,  our  hero  achieves  the  most 
happy  results. 

By  Pike  and  Dyke:    A  Tale  of  the  Else  of  the  Dutch 

Republic.    By  G.  A.  HENTY..    With   illustrations   by   MAYNARD   BROWN. 

12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  SI. 00. 

"Boys  with  a  turn  for  historical  research  will  be  enchanted  with  the 
book,  while  the  rest  who  only  care  for  adventure  will  be  students  in  spite 
of  themselves." — St.  James's  Gazette. 

fit.  George  for  England:  A  Tale  of  Cressy  and  Poi 
tiers.  By  G.  A.  HENTY.  With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.  12mo, 
cloth,  olivine  edgf-s,  price  $1.00. 

"A  story  of  very  great  interest  for  boys.  In  his  own  forcible  style 
the  author  has  endeavored  to  show  that  determination  and  enthusiasm 
can  accomplish  marvellous  results;  and  that  courage  is  generally  accom 
panied  by  magnanimity  and  gentleness." — Fall  Mall  Gazette. 

Captain  Bayley's  Heir:     A  Tale  of  the  Gold  Fields  of 

California.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    Wiih  illustrations  by  H.  M.  PAQET.    12moi 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  gl.OO. 

"Mr.  Henty  is  careful  to  mingle  Instruction  with  entertainment;  and 
the  humorous  touches,  especially  in  the  sketch  of  John  Holl,  the  West 
minster  dustman,  Dickens  himself  could  hardly  have  excelled." — Chris 
tian  Leader. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L,  BUST,  68-68  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

Budd  Boyd's  Triumph;  or,  The  Boy  Firm  of  Fox  Island, 

By  WILUAM  P,  CHIPMAN.  ISmo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  {1.00, 
The  scene  of  this  story  Is  laid  on  the  upper  part  of  Narragansett  Bay, 
and  the  leading  incidents  have  a  strong  salt-water  flavor.  The  two 
boys,  Budd  Boyd  and  Judd  Floyd,  being  ambitious  and  clear  sighted, 
form  a  partnership  to  catch  and  sell  fish.  Budd's  pluck  and  good  sense 
carry  him  through  many  troubles.  In  following  the  career  of  the  boy 
firm  of  Boyd  &  Floyd,  the  youthful  reader  will  find  a  useful  lesson- 
that  industry  and  perseverance  are  bound  to  lead  to  ultimate  success. 

Lost  in  the  Canyon:     Sam  Willett's  Adventures  on  the 

Great  Colorado.  By  ALFRED  R.  CALHOUN.  12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  ft 
This  story  hinges  on  a  fortune  left  to  Sam  Willett,  the  hero,  and  the 
fact  that  it  will  pass  to  a  disreputable  relative  if  the  lad  dies  before 
be  shall  have  reached  his  majority.  The  story  of  his  father's  peril  and 
of  Sam's  desperate  trip  down  the  great  canyon  on  a  raft,  and  how  the 
party  finally  escape  from  their  perils  is  described  in  a  graphic  style 
that  stamps  Mr.  Calhoun  as  a  master  of  bis  art. 

Captured  by  Apes :     The  Wonderful  Adventures  of  a 

Young  Animal  Trainer.    By  HARRY  PRENTICE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated. 

price  $1.00. 

Philip  Garland,  a  young  animal  collector  and  trainer,  sets  sail  for 
Eastern  seas  in  quest  of  a  new  stock  of  living  curiosities.  The  vessel 
is  wrecked  oft  the  coast  of  Borneo,  and  young  Garland  is  cast  ashore 
on  a  small  island,  and  captured  by  the  apes  that  overrun  the  place. 
Very  novel  indeed  is  the  way  by  which  the  young  man  escapes  death. 
Mr.  Prentice  is  a  writer  of  undoubted  skill. 

Tinder  Drake's  Flag:     A  Tale  of  the  Spanish  Main. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"There  is  not  a  dull  chapter,  nor,  indeed,  a  dull  page  in  the  book;  but 
the  author  has  so  carefully  worked  up  his  subject  that  the  exciting 
deeds  of  his  heroes  are  never  incongruous  nor  absurd." — Observer. 

By  Sheer  Pluck:    A  Tale  of  the  Ashanti  War.    By 

G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  $1.00. 

The  author  has  woven,  In  a  tale  of  thrilling  interest,  all  the  details 
of  the  Ashanti  campaign,  of  which  he  was  himself  a  witness. 

"Mr.  Henty  keeps  up  his  reputation  as  a  writer  of  boys'  stories.  'By 
Sheer  Pluck'  will  be  eagerly  read." — Athenseum. 

With  Lee  in  Virginia :     A  Story  of  the  American  Civil 

War.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    ISmo, 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  the  best  stories  for  lads  which  Mr.  Henty  has  yet  written. 
Jhe  picture  is  full  of  life  and  color,  and  the  stirring  and  romantic  Inci 
dents  are  skillfully  blended  with  the  personal  interest  and  charm  of  the 
story. ' ' — Standard. 

By  England's  Aid;  or,  The  Freeing  of  the  Netherlands 

(1585-1604).    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  ALFRED  PEARSE.    12mo, 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"It  is  an  admirable  book  for  youngsters.  It  overflows  with  stirring 
Incident  and  exciting  adventure,  and  the  color  of  the  era  and  of  the 
scene  are  finely  reproduced.  The  illustrations  add  to  its  attractiveness. " — 
Boston  Gazette. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  -ot  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUST,  68-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  t.  BTTRT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.      11 
BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

By  Eight  of  Conquest;  or,    With    Cortez  in   Mexico. 

By  G.   A.   HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  W.  S.  STAGEY.    12mo,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.50. 

"The  conquest  of  Mexico  by  a  small  band  of  resolute  men  under  the 
magnificent  leadership  of  Cortez  is  always  rightfully  ranked  among  the  most 
romantic  and  daring  exploits  in  history.  'By  Right  of  Conquest'  is  the 
neaiest  approach  to  a  perfectly  successful  historical  tale  that  Mr.  Henty 
has  yet  published. " — Academy. 

For  Name  and  Fame;   or,  Through  Afghan  Passes. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth, 

ofivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Not  only  a  rousing  story,  replete  with  all  the  varied  forms  of  excite 
ment  of  a  campaign,  but,  what  is  still  more  useful,  an  account  of  a 
territory  and  its  inhabitants  which  must  for  a  long  time  possess  a  supremo 
Interest  for  Englishmen,  as  being  the  key  to  our  Indian,  Empire." — 
Glasgow  Herald. 

The  Bravest  of  the  Brave;  or,  With  Peterborough  in 

Spain.    By  Q.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  H.  M.   PAGET.    32mo 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty  never  loses  sight  of  the  moral  purpose  of  his  work — to 
enforce  the  doctrine  of  courage  and  truth,  mercy  and  loving  kindness, 
as  indispensable  to  the  making  of  a  gentleman.  Boys  will  read  'The 
Bravest  of  the  Brave'  with  pleasure  and  profit;  of  that  we  are  qulto 
sure." — Daily  Telegraph. 

The  Cat  of  Bubastes:A  Story  of  Ancient  Egypt.    By 

G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00, 

"The  story,  from  the  critical  moment  of  the  killing  of  the  sacred  cat 

to  the  perilous  exodus  into  Asia  with  which  it  closes,   Is  very  skillfully 

constructed  and  full  of  exciting  adventures.    It  Is  admirably  Illustrated." 

— Saturday  Review. 

Bonnie  Prince  Charlie:    A  Tale  of  Fontenoy  and  Cul- 

loden.    By  G.  A,  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROVNB.    12mo, 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Ronald,  the  hero,  is  very  like  the  hero  of  'Quentln  Durward.'  The 
lad's  journey  across  France,  and  his  hairbreadth  escapes,  makes  up  aa 
good  a  narrative  of  the  kind  as  we  have  ever  read.  For  freohness  of 
treatment  and  variety  of  Incident  Mr,  Henty  has  surpassed  himself."— 
Spectator. 

With  Clive  in  India;  or,  The  Beginnings  of  an  Empire. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    12uio,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"He  has  taken  a  period  of  Indian  history  of  the  most  vital  impor 
tance,  and  he  has  embroidered  on  the  historical  facts  a  story  which  of 
Itself  is  deeply  interesting.  Young  people  assuredly  will  be  delighted 
with  the  volume."— Scotsman. 

In  the  Reign  of  Terror:    The  Adventures  of  a  West- 

minster  Boy.    By  G.  A.  HENTY,    With  illustrations  by  J.  SCHCNBERO, 

12mo,  cloth,  olivino  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Harry  Sand  with,  the  Westminster  boy,  may  fairly  be  said  to  beat 
Mr.  Henty's  record.  His  adventures  will  delight  boys  by  the  audacity 
and  peril  they  depict.  The  story  is  one  of  Mr.  Henty 'a  best." — Saturday 
Review. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  pries  by  th* 
publisher,  A.  L.  HURT.  62-68  Duane  Street,  New  York, 


A.  L.  SORT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE 


BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 


The  Lion  of  the  North:    A  Tale  of  Gustavus  Adolphus 

and  the  Wars  of  Religion.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  JOHN 

SCHONBERG.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  praiseworthy  attempt  to  interest  British  youth  in  the  great  deeds 
of  the  Scotch  Brigade  in  the  wars  of  Gustavus  Adolphus.  Mackey,  Hep 
burn,  and  Munro  live  again  In  Mr.  Henty's  pages,  as  those  deserve  to 
live  whose  disciplined  bands  formed  really  the  germ  of  the  modern 
British  army." — Atheneum. 

The  Dragon  and  the  Raven;   or,   The  Days  of  King 

Alfred.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  C.  J.  STANILAND.    12mo 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

In  this  story  the  author  gives  an  account  of  the  fierce  straggle  bfr 
tween  Saxon  and  Dane  for  supremacy  In  England,  and  presents  a  vivia 
picture  of  the  misery  and  ruin  to  which  the  country  was  reduced  by  the 
ravages  of  the  sea-wolves.  Th<  story  Is  treated  in  a  manner  most  at 
tractive  to  the  boyish  reader." — Athenaeum. 

The  Young  Carthaginian:    A  Story  of  the  Times  of 

Hannibal.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  C.  J.  STANILAND.  13mo, 

cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Well  constructed  and  vividly  told.  From  first  to  last  nothing  stays 
the  interest  of  the  narrative.  It  bears  us  along  as  on  a  stream  whose 
current  varies  in  direction,  but  never  loses  its  force." — Saturday  Review. 

In  Freedom's  Canse:    A  Story  of  Wallace  and  Bruce. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.    13mo,  cloth: 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"It  Is  written  In  the  author's  best  style.  Full  of  the  wildest  and  most 
remarkable  achievements,  it  is  a  tale  of  great  Interest,  which  a  boy.  once 
he  has  begun  it,  will  not  willingly  put  one  side." — The  Schoolmaster. 

With  Wolfe  in  Canada;  or,  The  Winning  of  a  Con 
tinent  By  G.  A.  HENTY.  With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE.  I2mo 
cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  model  of  what  a  boys'  story-book  should  be.  Mr.  Henty  has  a 
great  power  of  Infusing  into  the  dead  facts  of  history  new  life,  and  as 
no  pains  are  spared  by  him  to  ensure  accuracy  in  historic  details,  his 
books  supply  useful  aids  to  study  as  well  as  amusement." — School  Guard 
ian* 

True  to  the  Old  Flag:    A  Tale  of  the  American  War  of 

Independence.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE. 

12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Does  Justice  to  the  pluck  and  determination  of  the  British  sollders 
during  the  unfortunate  struggle  against  American  emancipation.  The  son 
of  an  American  loyalist,  who  remains  true  to  our  flag,  falls  among  the 
hostile  red-skins  in  that  very  Huron  country  which  has  been  endeared 
to  us  by  the  exploits  of  Hawkeye  and  Cblngachgook." — The  Times, 

A  Final  Beckoning:    A   Tale  of  Bush   Life  in  Aus 
tralia.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  W.  B.  WOLLEN.    12mo, 
cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 
"All  boys  will  read  this  story  with  eager  and  unflagging  Interest.     Th« 

episodes  are  in  Mr.   Henty's  very  best  vein — graphic,   exciting,   realistic; 

and,  as  in  all  Mr.  Henty's  books,  the  tendency  is  to  the  formation  of  ac 

honorable,    manly,    and   even   heroic   character." — Birmingham   Post. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tl.-- 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUST,  62-68  Dvuuw  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  KURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.     13 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

The  Lion  of  St.  Mark:    A  Tale  of  Venice  in  the  Four 
teenth  Century.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNE. 
12mo,  cloth,  olivino  edges,  price  $1.00. 
"Every  boy  should  read  'The  Lion  of  St.  Mark.'     Mr.  Henty  has  never 

produced  a  story  more  delightful,  more  wholesome,  or  more  vivacious."— 

Saturday   Heview. 

Facing  Death;  or,  The  Hero  of  the  Vaughan  Pit.    A 

Tale  of  the  Coal  Mines.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON 

BROWNE.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"The  tale  Is  well  written  and  well  Illustrated,  and  there  Is  much 
reality  In  the  characters.  If  any  father,  clergyman,  or  schoolmaster 
is  on  the  lookout  for  a  good  book  to  give  as  a  present  to  a  boy  who  IE 
worth  bis  salt,  this  is  the  book  we  would  recommend." — Standard. 

Maori  and  Settler:      A  Story  ox  the  New  Zealand  War. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  Illustrations  by  ALFRED  PKARSK.    12mo,  clotht 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"In  the  adventures  among  the  Maoris,  there  are  many  breathless 
moments  in  whicb  the  odds  seem  hopelessly  against  the  party,  but  they 
succeed  In  establishing  themselves  happily  in  one  of  the  pleasant  New 
Zealand  valleys.  It  is  brimful  of  adventure,  of  humorous  and  Interesting 
conversation,  and  vivid  pictures  of  colonial  life." — Schoolmaster. 

One  of  the  28th:    A  Tale  of  Waterloo.    By  G.  A. 

HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  W.  H.  OVERKND.      12mo,    cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Written  with  Homeric  vigor  and  heroic  inspiration.  It  Is  graphic, 
picturesque,  and  dramatically  effective  .  a  .  shows  us  Mr.  Henty  at 
his  best  and  brightest.  The  adventures  will  hold  a  boy  enthralled  as  he 
rushes  through  them  with  breathless  interest  'from  cover  to  cover.'  "— 
Observer. 

Orange  and  Green:    A  Tale  of  the  Boyne  and  Limer 
ick.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  GORDON  BROWNB.     ISmo, 
cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1 .00. 
"The  narrative  Is  free    from    the  vice    of    prejudice,  and    ripples    with 

life  as  If  what  is  being  described  were  really  passing  before  the  eye."— 

Belfast   News-Letter. 

Through  the  Fray:    A  Story  of  the   Lnddite   Eiots. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations  by  H.  M.  PAGET.    ISmo,  cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty  inspires  a  love  and  admiration  for  straightforwardness,  truth 
and  courage.  This  Is  one  of  the  best  of  the  many  good  books  Mr. 
Henty  has  produced,  and  deserves  to  be  classed  with  his  'Facing  Death.'  " 
— Standard. 

The  Young  Midshipman:  A  Story  of  the  Bombard 
ment  of  Alexandria.  With  illustrations.  I2mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges' 
price  $1.00. 

A  coast  fishing  lad,  by  an  act  of  heroism,  secures  the  Interest  of 
a  shipowner,  who  places  him  as  an  apprentice  on  board  one  of  his  ships. 
In  company  with  two  of  his  fellow-apprentices  he  is  left  behind,  at 
Alexandria,  In  the  bands  of  the  revolted  Egyptian  troops,  and  Is  present 
through  the  bombardment  and  the  scenes  of  riot  and  bloodshed  which 
accompanied  H. 


For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tbn 
publisher,  A.  L.  BURT,  52-53  Duano  Street,   New  York. 


14       A.  L.  SUET'S  BOOKS  FOE  YOUNG  PEOPL1. 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

In    Times    of    Peril.    A  Tale  of    India.    By  G.  A, 

HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

The  hero  of  the  story  early  excites  our  admiration,  and  is  altogether 
a  fine  character  such  as  boys  will  delight  in,  whilst  the  etory  of  the 
campaign  is  very  graphically  told." — St.  James's  Gazette. 

The  Cornet  of  Horse:    A  Tale  of  Marlborough's  Wars. 

By  Q.  A.  HENTT.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1. 

"Mr.  Henty  not  only  concocts  a  thrilling  tale,  he  weaves  fact  and  fiction 
together  with  so  skillful  a  hand  that  the  reader  cannot  help  acquiring  a 
just  and  clear  view  of  that  fierce  and  terrible  struggle  known  as  tht 
Crimean  War." — Athenaeum. 

The  Young  Franc-Trrems:    Their  Adventures  in  the 

Franco-Prussian  War.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth, 

olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  capital  book  for  boya.  It  is  bright  and  readable,  and  full  of  good 
sense  and  manliness.  It  teaches  pluck  and  patience  in  adversity,  and 
shows  that  right  living  leads  to  success." — Observer. 

The  Young  Colonists:    A  Story  of  Life  and  War  in 

South  Africa.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine 

edges,  price  $1.00. 

"No  boy  needs  to  have  any  story  of  Henty's  recommended  to  him,  and 
parents  who  do  *.ot  know  and  buy  them  for  their  boys  should  be  ashamed 
of  themselves.  Those  to  whom  he  is  yet  unknown  could  not  make  a 
better  beginning  than  with  this  book. 

The  Young  Buglers.    A  Tale  of  the  Peninsular  War. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1. 

"Mr.  Henty  is  a  giant  among  boys*  writers,  and  his  books  are  suffi 
ciently  popular  to  be  sure  of  a  welcome  anywhere.  In  stirring  interest, 
this  is  quite  up  to  the  level  of  Mr.  Henty's  former  historical  tales." — 
Saturday  Review. 

Sturdy  and  Strong;  or,  How  George  Andrews  Made  his 

Way.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo.  cloth,  olivine  edgea 

price  $1.00. 

"The  history  of  a  hero  of  everyday  life,  whose  love  of  tr-th,  clothing  of 
modesty,  and  innate  pluck,  carry  him,  naturally,  from  poverty  to  afflu 
ence.  George  Andrews  is  an  example  of  character  with  nothing  to  cavil 
«t,  and  stands  as  a  good  instance  of  chivalry  in  domestic  life." — The 
Rmpire. 

Among  Malay  Pirates.    A    Story  of   Adventure   and 

Peril.    By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges, 

price  $1.00. 

"Incident  succeeds  incident,  and  adventure  is  piled  upon  adventure, 
and  at  the  end  the  reader,  be  he  boy  or  man,  will  have  experienced 
breathless  enjoyment  in  a  romantic  story  that  must  have  taught  him 
much  at  its  close." — Army  and  Navj  Gazette. 

Jack  Archer.     A   Tale   of   the    Crimea.     BY  G.  Ar 

HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Mr.  Henty  not  only  concocts  a  thrilling  t-lc,  he  weaves  fact  and  fiction 
together  with  so  skillful  a  hand  that  the  reader  cannot  help  acquiring  a 
Jmst  and  clear  view  of  that  fierce  and  terrible  struggle." — Athenaeum. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tb« 
publisher.  A,  L,  WET,  62-68  Du*n«  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.        15 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

Eriends,  Though  Divided.    A  Tale  of  the  Civil  War. 

By  G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.     12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1. 

"It  has  a  good  plot;  it  abounds  in  action;  the  scenes  are  equally  spirited 
and  realistic,  and  we  can  only  say  we  have  read  it  with  much  pleasure 
from  first  to  last." — Times. 

Out  on  the  Pampas;    or,    The    Young    Settlers.    B.y 

G.  A.  HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"A  really  noble  story,  which  adult  readers  will  find  to  the  full  as  satis 
fylng  as  the  boys.  Lucky  boys!  to  have  such  a  caterer  as  Mr.  G.  A< 
Heuty." — Black  and  White. 

The  Boy  Knight:      A  Tale  of  the  Crusades.    By  G.  A 

HENTY.    With  illustrations.    12mo,  cloth,  olivine  edges,  price  $1.00. 

"Of  stirring  episode  there  Is  no  lack.  The  book,  with  its  careful  aecU' 
racy  and  its  descriptions  of  all  the  chief  battles,  will  give  many  a  school 
boy  his  first  roal  understanding  of  a  very  Important  period  of  history." — 
St.  James's  Gazette. 

The  Wreck  of  the  Golden  Fleece.     The  Story  of  a  North 

Sea  Fisher  Boy.    By  ROBERT  LEIGHTON.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1. 

A  description  of  life  on  the  wild  North  Sea. — the  hero  being  a  parson's 
don  who  is  appreciated  on  board  a  Lowestoft  fishing  lugger.  The  kid  has 
.o  suffer  many  buffets  from  his  shipmates,  while  the  storms  and  dangers 
'vnich  he  braved  on  board  the  "North  Star"  are  set  forth  with  minute 
^.lowledge  and  intense  power.  The  wreck  of  the  "Golden  Fleece"  forms 
the  climax  to  a  thrilling  series  of  desperate  mischances. 

Olaf  the  Glorious.    A  Story  of  the  Viking  Age.    By 

ROBERT  LEIGHTON.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1 .00. 

This  story  of  Olaf  the  Glorious,  King  of  Norway,  opens  with  the  incident 
of  his  being  found  by  his  uncle  living  as  a  bond-slave  In  Esthonia;  theo 
~ome  his  adventures  as  a  Viking  and  his  raids  upon  the  coasts  of  Scot 
land  and  England,  his  victorious  battle  against  the  English  at  Maldon  In 
Essei,  his  being  bought  off  by  Ethelred  the  Unready,  and  his  conversion 
cO  Christianity.  He  then  returns  to  Pagan  Norway,  is  accepted  as  king- 
end  converts  his  people  to  the  Christian  faith. 

To  Greenland  and  the  Pole.     A  story  of  Adventure  in 

the  Arctic  Regions.  By  GORDON  STABLES.  12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1 
'•'£ne  ttafailing  fascination  of  Arctic  venturing  Is  presented  in  this  SMT? 
wltii  new  vividness.  It  deals  with  skilo'bning  in  the  north  of  Scotland, 
deer-hunting  in  Noriray,  sealing  in  the  Arctic  Seas,  bear-stalking  on  the 
Ice-Goes,  the  hardships  r>f  a  journey  across  Greenland,  and  a  successful 
voyage  to  the  bacK  o*  the  NorO  Pole.  This  is.  indeed,  a  real  sea-yarn 
by  a  real  sailor,  and  the  tone  ia  as  bright  and  wholesome  as  the  adventure 
are  numerous. 

Yussuf  the  Guide.     A   Story   of   Adventure  in   Asia 

Minor.    By  GEORGE  MANVILLE  FENN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

This  story  deals  with  the  stirring  incidents  1C  the  career  of  a  lad  who  has 
been  almost  given  over  by  the  doctors,  but  whc  rapidly  recovers  health 
and  strength  in  a  Journey  through  Asia  Minor.  The  advcntutes  are  many, 
and  culminate  in  the  travellers  being  snowed  up  for  the  winter  In  the 
mountains,  from  which  they  escape  while  their  captors  are  waiting  for 
the  ransom  that  does  not  come. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  th« 
publisher,  A,  L,  BVB.T,  68-68  Duane  Streat.  New  York. 


16     A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 
BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

Urettir  the  Outlaw.    A  Story  of  Iceland.    By  S.  BAB- 
ING-GOULD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  is  the  boys'  book  of  the  year.  That  is.  of  course,  as  much  as 
to  say  that  it  will  do  for  men  grown  as  well  as  juniors.  It  is  told  in 
Simple,  straightforward  English,  as  all  stories  should  be,  and  it  has  a 
freshness  and  freedom  which  make  it  irresistible." — National  Observer. 

Two   Thousand   Years  Ago.     The   Adventures   of   a 

Korean  Boy.    By  A.  J.  CHURCH.    Ifmo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Prof.  Church  has  In  this  story  sought  to  revivify  that  most  interesting 
period,  the  last  days  of  the  Roman  Republic.  The  book  is  extremely  en 
tertaining  as  well  as  useful:  there  is  a  wonderful  freshness  in  the  RomaE 
Scenes  and  characters." — Times. 

Mat  the  Naturalist.    A  Boy's  Adventure  in  the  East- 

ern  Seas.    By  GEORGK  MAKVILLE  FKNN.    ISmo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1, 
Nat  and  his  uncle  Dick  go  on  a  voyage  to  the  remoter  islands  of  the 
Eastern  seas,   and  their  adventures  are  told  in  a  truthful  and  vastly  in 
teresting  fashion.     The  descriptions  of  Mr.   Ebony,   their  black  comrade, 
and  of  the  scenes  of  savage  life,  are  full  of  genuine  humor. 

The  Log  of  the  Flying  Fish.      A  Story  of  Peril  and 

Adventure.    By  HARRY  COLLINGWOOD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1. 

"This  story  is  full  of  even  more  vividly  recounted  adventures  than  those 
WhiclJ  charmed  so  many  boy  readers  in  'Pirate  Island'  and  'Congo  Rovers.' 
.  .  .  There  is  a  thrilling  adventure  on  the  precipices  of  Mount  Everest, 
when  the  ship  floats  off  and  providentially  returns  by  force  of  'gravita 
tion.'  " — Academy. 

The  Congo  Rovers.    A  Story  of  the   Slave   Squadron. 

By  HARRY  COLLINGWOOD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  scene  of  this  tale  is  laid  on  the  west  coast  of  Africa,  and  in  the 
lower  reaches  of  the  Congo;  the  characteristic  scenery  of  the  great  river 
being  delineated  with  wonderful  accuracy.  Mr.  Collingwood  carries  us  off 
for  another  cruise  at  sea,  in  'The  Congo  Covers,'  and  boys  will  need  no 
pressing  to  join  the  daring  crew,  which  seeks  adventures  and  meets  with 
any  number  of  them." — The  Times, 

Boris  the  Bear  Hunter.    A  Tale  of  Peter  the  Great  and 

His  Times.    By  FRKD  WISHAW.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"This  is  a  capital  story.     The  characters  are  marked  and  lifelike,  and  if 
IB  full  of  incident  and  adventure." — Standard. 

Ilichael  Strogoff ;  or,  The  Courier  of  the  Czar.    By 

JULES  VERNE.    I2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  story  is  full  of  originality  and  vigor.  The  characters  are  lifelike,, 
there  is  plenty  of  stirring  incident,  the  interest  is  sustained  throughout, 
and  every  boy  will  enjoy  following  the  fortunes  of  the  hero." — Journal  of 
Education.  . 

Mother  Carey's  Chicken.     Her  Voyage  to  the  Unknown 

Isle.    By  GEORGE  MANVILLE  FENN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  fl.OO. 

"Undoubtedly  one  of  the  best  Mr.  Fenn  has  written.  The  incidents  are 
of  thrilling  interest,  while  the  characters  are  drawn  with  a  care  and  com 
pleteness  rarely  found  in  a  boy's  book." — Literary  World. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher.  A.  L.  BTOT,  52-68  Duana  Street.  TIew  York. 


A.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.      17 


Dick  Sand;   or,  A    Captain    at    Fifteen.     By  JULES 

VERNE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Jules  Verne  himself  never  constructed  a  more  marvellous  tale.  It  con 
tains  the  strongly  marked  features  that  are  always  conspicuous  In  his 
stories — a  racy  humor,  the  manly  vigor  of  his  sentiment,  and  wholesome 
moral  lessons." — Christian  Leader. 

Erling  the  Bold.    A  Tale  of  the   Norse   Sea   Kings. 

By  R.  M.  BALLANTYNE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
•  "This  volume   makes  a   really  fascinating  book,   worthy  of  its  telling 
title.     There  Is,  we  venture  to  say,  not  a  dull  chapter  in  the  book,  not 
a  page  which  will  not  bear  a  second   reading*" — Guardian. 

Masterman  Ready;  or,  The  Wreck  of  the  Pacific.    By 

CAPTAIN  MARRYAT.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"As  racy  a  tale  of  life  at  sea  and  adventure  as  we  have  met  with  for 
some  time.     .     .     .     Altogether  the  sort  of  book  that  boys  will  revel  In." 

— Athencsum. 

The  Green  Mountain  Boys.    A  Tale  of  the  Early  Set 
tlement  of  Vermont.    By  D.  P.  THOMPSON.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1. 
A  story  of  very  great  interest  for  boys.     In  his  own  forcible  style  the 
author  has  endeavored   to   show   that  determination   and   patriotic  enthu 
siasm  can  accomplish   marvellous  results.     This  story  gives  a  graphic  ac 
count  of  the  early  settlers  of  Vermont,  and  their  patriotic  efforts  in  de 
fending  their  homes  from  the  Invasions  of  enemies. 

Every  Inch  a  Sailor.     By  GORDON   STABLES.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"A  story  which  Is  quite  as  good  in  its  way  as  'Treasure  Island,'  and  Is 
full  of  adventure  of  a  stirring  yet  most  natural  kind.  Although  it  is 
primarily  a  boys'  book,  It  is  a  real  godsend  to  the  elderly  reader." — 
Evening  Times. 

The  Golden  Galleon.    A  Narrative    of   Adventure  on 

Her  Majesty's  Ship  the  Revenge.    By  ROBERT  LEIGHTON.     12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  story  should  add  considerably  to  Mr.  Lelehton's  high  reputation. 
Excellent  in  every  respect,  It  contains  every  variety  of  incident.  The  plot 
Is  very  cleverly  devised,  and  the  types  of  the  North  Sea  sailors  are 
capital." — The  Times. 

The  Gorilla  Hunters.    A  Tale  of  the  Wilds  of  Africa. 

By  R.  M.  BALLANTYISE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"We  conscientiously  belive  that  boys  will  find  It  capital  reading.  It  is 
full  of  incident  and  mystery,  and  the  mystery  is  kept  up  to  the  last 
moment.  It  is  full  of  stirring  adventure,  daring  and  many  escapes;  and 
It  has  a  historical  interest." — Times. 

Gascoyne   the    Sandalwood    Trader.    By  K.  M.  BAL- 

LANTYNB.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  the  best  stories  of  seafaring  life  and  adventure  which  have 
appeared  this  season.  Entertaining  in  the  highest  degree  from  beginning 
to  end,  and  full  of  adventure  which  Is  all  the  livelier  for  Its  close  con 
nection  with  history." — Spectator. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BURT,  62-68  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


18     A.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOB  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

Two  Years  Before  the  Mast.    A  Personal  Narrative  of 

Life  at  Sea.    By  R.  H.  DANA,  JR.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  the  very  best  books  for  boys  that  we  have  seen  for  a  long  time: 
its  author  stands  far  in  advance  of  any  other  writer  for  boys  as  a  teller 
of  stories  of  the  sea." — The  Standard. 

The  Young  Rajah.    A  Story  of  Indian  Life.    By  W. 

H.  G.  KINGSTON.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  story  will  place  the  author  at  one*  in  the  front  rank.  It  is  full 
of  life  and  adventure,  and  the  interest  is  sustained  without  a  break  from 
flrst  to  last." — Standard. 

How  Jack  Mackenzie  Won  His  Epaulettes.    A  Story 

of  the  Crimean  War.     By  GORDON  STABLES.     12mo,  cloth,  illustrated. 

price  gl.OO. 

"This  must  rank  among  the  few  undeniably  good  boys'  books.  He 
will  be  a  very  dull  boy  indeed  who  lays  it  down  without  wishing  that 
It  had  gone  on  for  at  least  100  pages  more." — Mail. 

The  King's  Pardon.    A  Story  of  Land  and  Sea.    By 

ROBERT  OVKRTON.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  81.00. 

"An  excellent  story,  the  interest  being  sustained  from  first  to  last. 
This  is,  both  in  its  intention  and  the  way  the  story  is  told,  one  of  the 
best  books  of  its  kind  which  has  come  before  us  this  year." — Saturday 
He  view. 

Under  the  Lone  Star.    A  Story  of  the  Eevolution  in 

Nicaragua.    By  HERBERT  HATNES.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"We  have  not  of  late  come  across  a  historical  fiction,  whether  intended 
for  boys  or  for  men,  which  deserves  to  be  so  heartily  and  unreservedly 
praised  as  regards  plot,  incidents,  and  spirit  as  this  book.  It  is  its  au 
thor's  masterpiece  as  yet." — Spectator. 

Geoff  and  Jim:  A  Story  of  School  Life.    By  ISMAY 

THORN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"This  is  a  prettily  told  story  of  the  life  spent  by  two  motherless  bairna 
at  a  small  preparatory  school.  Both  Geoff  and  Jim  are  very  lovable  char 
acters,  only  Jim  is  the  more  so;  and  the  scrapes  he  gets  into  and  the 
trials  he  endures  will,  no  doubt,  interest  a  large  circle  of  young  readers." 
—Church  Times. 

Jack:  A  Topsy  Turvy  Story.    By  C.  M.   CRAWLEY- 

BOEVEY.    ISmo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"The  illustrations  deserve  particular  mention,  as  they  add  largely  to 
the  interest  of  this  amusing  volume  for  children.  Jack  falls  asleep  with 
his  mind  full  of  the  subject  of  the  fishpond,  and  is  very  much  surprised 
presently  to  find  himself  an  inhabitant  of  Waterworld,  where  he  goes 
through  wonderful  and  edifying  adventures.  A  handsome  and  pleasant 
book." — Literary  World. 

Black  Beauty.     The  Autobiography  of  a  Horse.     By 

ANNA  SEWELL.    l2mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

This  is  the  life  story  of  a  horse;  how  he  was  ill  treated  and  well 
cared  for.  The  experiences  of  Black  Beauty,  Ginger,  and  Merrylegs  are 
extremely  interesting.  Wherever  children  are,  whether  boys  or  girls,  there 
this  Autobiography  should  be.  It  inculcates  habits  of  kindness  to  all  mem 
bers  of  the  animal  creation.  The  literary  merit  of  the  book  is  excellent. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tie 
publisher,  A.  L.  BUBT,  62-68  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.        19 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

Mopsa  the  Fairy.    By  JEAN  INGELOW.     12mo,  cloth, 

illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Mrs.  Ingelow  Is,  to  our  mind,  the  most  charming  of  all  living  writers 
for  children,  and  'Mopsa'  alone  ought  to  give  her  a  kind  of  pre-emptive 
right  to  the  love  and  gratitude  of  our  young  folks.  It  requires  genius 
to  conceive  a  purely  imaginary  work  which  must  of  necessity  deal  with 
the  supernatural,  without  running  into  a  mere  riot  of  fantastic  absurdity; 
but  genius  Mrs.  Ingelow  has,  and  the  story  of  'Jack'  is  as  careless  and 
joyous,  but  as  delicate  as  a  picture  of  childhood." — Eclectic. 

Carrots:  Just  a  Little  Boy.    By  MBS.  MOLESWOETH. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"One  of  the  cleverest  and  most  pleasing  stories  it  has  been  our  good 
fortune  to  meet  with  for  some  time.  Carrots  and  his  sister  are  delight 
ful  little  beings,  whom  to  read  about  is  at  once  to  become  very  fond  of. 
A  genuine  children's  book;  we've  seen  'em  seize  it,  and  read  it  greedily. 
Children  are  first-rate  critics,  and  thoroughly  appreciate  Walter  Crane's 
illustrations. ' ' — Punch. 

Larry's  Luck.     By  the  author  of  "Miss  Toosey's  Mis 
sion."    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"It  is  believed  that  this  story,  by  this  favorably  known  author  of 
'Miss  Toosey's  Mission,'  will  be  found  both  highly  interesting  and  instruc 
tive  to  the  young.  Whether  the  readers  are  nine  years  old,  or  twice  as 
old,  they  must  enjoy  this  pretty  volume." — The  Examiner. 

A  Child's  Christmas:  A  Sketch  of  Boy  Life.     By  MRS. 

MOLESWORTH.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"This  is  another  of  those  delightful  juvenile  stories  of  which  this  author 
has  written  so  many.  It  is  a  fascinating  little  book,  with  a  charming 
plot,  a  sweet,  pure  atmosphere,  and  teaches  a  wholesome  moral  in  the 
most  winning  manner." — Gazette. 

Chunk,  Fusky  and  Snout.     A  Story  of  Wild  Pigs  for 

Little  People.    By  GERALD  YOUNG.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"The  story  is  an  extremely  interesting  one,  full  of  incident,  told  in  a 
quiet,  healthful  way,  and  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasantly  Interfused 
Information  about  wild  pigs  and  their  ways.  It  is  sure  to  interest  both 
boys  and  girls." — Christian  Union. 

Daddy's  Boy.    By  L.  T.  MEADE.     12mo,  cloth,  illus 
trated,  price  75  cents. 

"A  charming  story  of  child  life.  Little  Sir  Rowland  Is  one  of  the 
most  fascinating  of  the  misunderstood  child  heroes  of  the  day.  The  quaint 
doings  and  imaginings  of  this  gentle,  lovable,  but  highly  original  child  are 
Introduced  by  Mrs.  Meade,  with  all  her  accustomed  pathos." — Guardian. 

Adventures    of    Prince    Prigio.     BY    ANDREW    LANG. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"This  book  has  so  much  charm  of  style  and  good  writing  that  It  will  be 
eagerly  read  by  many  other  than  the  young  folk  for  whom  It  Is  Intended." 
— Black  and  White. 

A  Flock  of  Four.     A  Story  for  Boys  and  Girls.     By 

ISMAT  THORN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated^  price  75  cents. 

"As  a  gift  book  for  boys  it  is  among  the  best  new  books  of  the  kind. 
The  story  is  interesting  and  natural,  from  first  to  last." — Gazette. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BURT,  52-58  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


20     A.  L.  BURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

A  Flat  Iron  for  a  Farthing.    The  Story  of  an  Only 

Son.    By  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"A  Tery  good  book  It  is,  full  of  adventure,  graphically  told.    The  style 

is  Just  what  it  should  be;    simple  but  not  bold,   full  of  pleasant  humor, 

and  with  some  pretty   touches  of  feeling.     Like  all  Mrs.   Ewing's  tales, 

it  Is  sound,  sensible,  and  wholesome." — Times, 

The  Greek  Heroes.    Fairy  Tales  for  My  Children.    By 

CHARLES  KINGSLKT.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"We  do  not  think  these  heroic  stories  have  ever  been  more  attractively 
told.  .  .  There  is  a  deep  under-current  of  religious  feeling  traceable 
throughout  its  pages  which  is  sure  to  influence  young  readers  power 
fully.  One  of  the  children's  books  that  will  surely  become  a  classic." — 
London  Review. 

Jackanapes.     BY  JULIANA  HORATIA  EWING.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"This  is  one  of  Mrs.  Ewing's  charming  little  stories  for  young  children. 
The  narrative  ...  is  full  of  interest  for  its  real  grace  and  delicacy, 
and  the  exquisiteness  and  purity  of  the  English  in  which  it  is  written." — 
Boston  Advertiser. 

Princess  and  Curdie.    By  GEORGE  MACDONALD.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"One  of  the  cleverest  and  most  pleasing  stories  it  has  been  our  good 
fortune  to  meet  with  for  some  time.  The  Princess  and  Curdie  are  delight 
ful  little  beings,  whom  to  read  about  is  at  once  to  become  very  fond  of." 
— Examiner. 

Peter  the  Pilgrim.     The  Story  of  a  Boy  and  His  Pet 

Rabbit.    By  L.  T.  MEADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"Little  Peter,  with  his  soft  heart,  clever  head,  and  brave  spirit  is  no 
morbid  presentment  of  the  angelic  child   'too  good  to  live,"   and  who  is 
certainly   a   nuisance   on   earth,    but   a   charming  creature,    if   not   a   por 
trait,  whom  it  is  a  privilege  to  meet  even  in  fiction." — The  Academy. 

We  and  the  World.    A  Story  for  Boys.    By  JULIANA 

HORATIA  EWINQ.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"The  author  has  evidently  studied  the  ways  and  tastes  of  children  and 
got  at  the  secret  of  amusing  them;     and  has  succeeded  in  what  is  not 
so  easy   a   task   as   it   may   seem — in  producing   a   really   good   children's 
book." — Daily  Telegraph. 

little    Ivan's    Hero.    A    Story    of    Child   Life.    By 

HELEN  MILMAN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"We  should  imagine  those  queer  folk  indeed  who  could  not  read  this 
story  with  eager  interest  and  pleasure,   be  they  boys  or  girls,   young  or 
old.     We  highly  commend  the  style  in  which  the  book  is  written,  and  the 
spirit  which  pervades  it." — World. 

Dick,  Marjorie  and  Fidge.     The  Wonderful  Adventures 

of  Three  Little  People.    By  G.  E.  FARROW.    12mo,  cloth,  illust'd,  price  75c. 

"...     To  the  young,  for  whom  it  is  especially  intended,  this  is  a 

most  Interesting  book  of  adventures,   well  told,    and   a   pleasant   book  to 

take  up  when  their  wish  Is  to  while  away  a  woary  half-hour.     We  have 

seen  no  prettier  gift-book  for  a  long  time." — Athenaeum. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BURX,  68-68  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  BUBT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.        21 

BOOKS  FOR  BOYS. 

A  Wonder  Book:   For  Boys  and  Girls.     Comprising 

Stories  of  Classical  Fables.     By  NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE.     12iuo,  cloth, 
illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"A  beautiful  little  story.  It  will  be  read  with  delight  by  every  child 
into  whose  hands  it  is  placed." — Gazette. 

My  Dog  Plato:  His  Adventures  and  Impressions.     By 

H.  M.  CORNWALL  LEOH.     12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"A  capital  story,   and  one  we  heartily  commend  to  boy   readers,   both 
gentle  and  simple." — Guardian. 

Squib  and  His  Friends.     A  Story  for  Children.     By 

ELLEN  EVERETT  GREEN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"This  book  will  please  by  Its  simplicity,  its  tenderness,  and  Its  healthy 
Interesting  motive.     It  is  admirably  written." — Scotsman. 

Tom's   Opinion.     The   Story  of  a  Boys'   School.     By 

the  author  of  "  Miss  Toosey's  Mission."    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75c. 
"A    beautiful    little    story.     ...     It    will    be    read    with    delight    by 
every  boy  into  whose  hands  it  is  placed." — Pall  Mall  Gazette. 

Robin's  Ride.     A   Story  for  Children.     By   ELLINOR 

D.  ADAMS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"It  Is  a  first-rate  boys'  book.  It  is  a  capital  story;  the  characters  arc 
well  drawn,  and  the  incidents  are  perfectly  natural." — Times. 

Peter  and  Tom.     A   Story  for  Boys.     By  BELLE   S. 

CRAGIN.    ISmo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

Peter  and  Tom  were  unlikely  heroes,  particularly  In  the  direction  of 
heroism,  but  the  proper  chord  was  touched  in  each  of  their  lives,  and 
through  many  trials  and  adventures  they  developed  Christian  principles  and 
successful  business  traits. 

I\Turse   Heatherdale's   Story.    By   MRS.  MOLESWORTH. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"  'Nurse  Heatherdale's  Story'  is  all  about  a  small  boy,  who  was  good 
enough,  yet  was  always  getting  into  some  trouble  through  complication! 
In  which  he  was  not  to  blame.  He  is  an  orphan,  though  he  is  cared  for  in 
a  way  by  relations,  who  are  not  so  very  rich,  yet  are  looked  on  as  well 
ilxed.  After  many  youthful  trials  and  disappointments  he  falls  Into  a 
big  stroke  of  good  Inek,  which  lifts  him  and  goes  to  make  other*  happy." 
— Commercial  Advertiser. 

The  Last  of  the  Huggermnggers.    A  Giant  Story.    By 

CHRISTOPHER  P.  CRAUCH.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Fresh  and  charming  in  style,  with  fun  that  Is  never  forced,  pathos 
that  is  always  genuine,  and  with  a  distinctly  wholesome  purpose.  This  Is 
certain  to  be  a  favorite  with  boys." — Literary  World. 

The   Hunting   of   the    Snark.    By    LEWIS    CARROLL, 

author  of  "Alice  in  Wonderland."    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Whether  as  regarding  author  or  Illustrator,  this  book  is  a  Jewel 
rarely  to  be  found  nowadays.  Not  a  whit  inferior  to  its  predecessor  in 
;:rnnd  extravagance  of  imagination,  and  delicious  allegorical  nonsense." 
— Quarterly  Review. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BURT,  68-58  Duane  Street,  New  York, 


22     A.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOE  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Alice's  Adventures  in  Wonderland.  By  LEWIS  CABROLL. 

12mo,  cloth,  42  illustrations,  price  75  cents. 

"From  first  to  last,  almost  without  exception,  this  story  Is  delightfully 
droll,  humorous  and  Illustrated  in  harmony  with  the  story." — K'ew  York 
Express. 

Through  the  Looking  Glass,  and  What  Alice  Found 

There.    By  LEWIS  CARROLL.    ISoio,  cloth,  50  illustrations,  price  75  cents. 
"A  delight  alike  to  the  young  people  and  their  elders,  extremely  funny 
both  in  text  and  illustrations." — Boston  Express. 

Little  Lucy's   Wonderful   Globe.    By  CHAELOTTE   M. 

YONGE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"This  story  is  unique  among  tales  intended  for  children,  alike  for  pleas 
ant  instruction,  quaintness  of  humor,  gentle  pathos,  and  the  subtlety  with 
which  lessons  moral  and  otherwise  are  conveyed  to  children,  and  perhaps 
to  their  seniors  as  well." — The  Spectator. 

Joan's  Adventures  at  the  North  Pole  and  Elsewhere. 

BY  ALICE  CORKRAN.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Wonderful  as  the  adventures  of  Joan  are,  it  must  be  admitted  that 
they  are  very  naturally  worked  out  and  very  plausibly  presented.  Alto 
gether  this  is  an  excellent  story  for  girls." — Saturday  Review. 

Count  Up  the  Sunny  Days :    A  Story  for  Girls  and  Boys. 

By  C.  A.  JONES.    12ino,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"An   unusually   good   children's  story." — Glasgow  Herald. 

The  Heir  of  Redclyffe.    By  CHAELOTTE   M.   YONGE. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"A  narrative  full  of  interest  from  first  to  last.  It  Is  told  clearly  and  in 
a  straightforward  manner,  and  arrests  the  attention  of  the  reader  at  once, 
so  that  one  feels  afresh  the  unspeakable  pathos  of  the  story  to  the  end." — 
London  Graphic. 

The   Dove  in  the   Eagle's   Nest.     By   CHARLOTTE   M. 

YONOE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Among  all  the  modern  writers  we  believe  Miss  Yonge  first,  not  in 
genius,  but  in  this,  that  she  employs  her  great  abilities  for  a  high  and 
noble  purpose.  We  know  of  few  modern  writers  whose  works  may  be  BO 
safely  commended  as  hers." — Cleveland  Times. 

Jan  of  the  Windmill.     A  Story  of  the  Plains.     By  MRS. 

J.  H.  EWINO.       12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Never  has  Mrs.  Ewlng  published  a  more  charming  volume,  and  that 
is  saying  a  very  great  deal.  From  the  first  to  the  last  the  book  over 
flows  with  the  strange  knowledge  of  child-nature  which  so  rarely  sur 
vives  childhood:  and  moreover,  with  inexhaustible  quiet  humor,  which 
is  never  anything  but  innocent  and  well-bred,  never  priggish,  and  never 
clumsy. ' ' — Academy. 

A  Sweet  Girl  Graduate.    By  L.  T.  MEADE.     12mo,  cloth, 

Illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  this  popular  author's  best.  The  characters  are  well  imagined 
and  drawn.  The  story  moves  with  plenty  of  spirit  and  the  interest  does 
not  flag  until  the  end  too  quickly  comes."— Providence  Journal. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  the 
publisher,  A.  L.  BXTBT,  62-69  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


A.  L.  HURT'S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE.      23 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Six    to    Sixteen:     A   Story  for  Girls.    By  JULIANA 

HORATIA  EWINQ.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"There  is  no  doubt  as  to  the  good  quality  and  attractiveness  ot  'Six  to 
Sixteen.'  The  book  is  one  which  would  enrich  any  girl's  book  shelf." — 
St.  James'  Gazette. 

The  Palace  Beautiful:     A  Story  for  Girls.     By  L.  T. 

MEADK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"A  bright  and  interesting  story.  The  many  admirers  of  Mrs.  L.  T. 
Meade  in  this  country  will  be  delighted  with  the  'Palace  Beautiful'  for 
more  reasons  than  one.  It  Is  a  charming  book  for  girls." — New  York 
Recorder. 

A  World  of  Girls:     The  Story  of  a  School.     By  L.  T. 

MEADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  those  wholesome  stories  which  it  does  one  good  to  read.  It 
will  afford  pure  delight  to  numerous  readers.  This  book  should  be  OB 
every  girl's  book  shelf." — Boston  Home  Journal. 

The  Lady  of  the  Forest :     A  Story  for  Girls.     By  L.  T. 

MEADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  story  is  written  in  the  author's  well-known,  fresh  and  easy  style. 
All  girls  fond  of  reading  will  be  charmed  by  this  well-written  story.  It 
is  told  with  the  author's  customary  grace  and  spirit." — Boston  Times. 

At  the  Back  of  the  North  Wind.     By  GEORGE  MAC- 
DONALD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 
"A  very  pretty  story,  with  much  of  the  freshness  and  vigor  of  Mr.  Mac- 

donald's  earlier  work.     .     .     «     It  is  a  sweet,  earnest,  and  wholesome  fairy 

story,  and  the  quaint  native  humor  is  delightful.     A  most  delightful  Tol- 

ume  for  poung  readers." — Philadelphia  Times. 

The  Water  Babies:     A  Fairy  Tale  for  a   Land  Baby. 

By  CHARLES  KINGSLEY.    18mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  strength  of  his  work,  as  well  as  its  peculiar  charms,  consist  in 
his  description  of  the  experiences  of  a  youth  with  life  under  water  in  the 
luxuriant  wealth  of  which  he  revels  with  all  the  ardor  of  a  poetical  na 
ture." — New  York  Tribune. 

Our  Bessie.     By  KOSA  N.  CAREY.     12mo,  cloth,  illus- 

strated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  the  most  entertaining  stories  of  the  season,  full  of  vigorous 
action,  and  strong  in  character-painting.  Elder  girls  will  be  charmed  with 
it,  and  adults  may  read  its  pages  with  profit." — The  Teachers'  Aid. 

Wild  Kitty.     A  Story  of  Middleton  School.     By  L.  T. 

MEADE.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Kitty  is  a  true  heroine — warm-hearted,  self-sacrificing,  and,  as  all 
good  women  nowadays  are,  largely  touched  with  the  enthusiasm  of  human 
ity.  One  of  the  most  attractive  gift  books  of  the  season." — The  Academy. 

A  Young   Mutineer.     A    Story  for  Girls.     By   L.    T. 

MEADK.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"One  of  Mrs.  Meade's  charming  books  for  girls,  narrated  in  that  simple 
and  picturesque  style  which  marks  the  authoress  as  one  of  the  flrst  among 
writers  for  young  people." — The  Spectator. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  tbe 
publisher,  A.  L.  BURT,  52-68  Duane  Strest,  Hew  York. 


24        A.  L.  BtJRT  S  BOOKS  FOR  YOUNG  PEOPLE. 

BOOKS  FOR  GIRLS. 

Sue  and  I.    By  MRS.  O'REILLY.    12mo,  cloth,  illus 
trated,  price  75  cents. 
"A  thoroughly  delightful  book,  full  of  sound  wisdom  as  well  as  tun." — 

Athenaeum. 

The  Princess   and  the   Goblin.    A   Fairy   Story.    By 

GEORGE  MACDONALD.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"If  a  child  once  begins  this  book,  it  will  get  so  deeply  interested  in 
it  that  when  bedtime  comes  it  will  altogether  forget  the  moral,  and  will 
weary  its  parents  with  importunities  for  just  a  few  minutes  more  to  see 
how  everything  ends." — Saturday  Review. 

Pythia's    Pupils:     A    Story    of    a    School.     By  EVA 

HARTNER.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"This  story  of  the  doings  of  several  bright  school  girls  is  sure  to  interest 
girl  readers.  Among  many  good  stories  for  girls  this  is  undoubtedly  one 
of  the  very  best." — Teachers'  Aid. 

A  Story  of  a  Short  Life.    By  JULIANA  HOEATIA  EWING. 

12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"The  book  is  one  we  can  heartily  recommend,  for  it  is  not  only  bright 
and  interesting,  but  also  pure  and  healthy  in  tone  and  teaching." — 
Courier. 

The  Sleepy  King.     A  Fairy  Tale.    By  AUBREY  HOP- 
WOOD  AND  SEYMOUR  HICKS.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 
"Wonderful  as  the  adventures  of  Bluebell  are,  it  must  be  admitted  that 

they    are    very    naturally    worked    out    and    very    plausibly    presented. 

Altogether  this  is  an  excellent  story  for  girls." — Saturday  Review. 

Two    Little    Waifs.    By    MRS.  MOLESWORTH.     12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"Mrs.  Molesworth's  delightful  story  of  'Two  Little  Waifs'  will  charm 
all  the  small  people  who  find  it  in  their  stockings.  It  relates  the  ad 
ventures  of  two  lovable  English  children  lost  in  Paris,  and  is  just  wonder 
ful  enough  to  pleasantly  wring  the  youthful  heart." — New  York  Tribune. 

Adventures  in  Toyland.    By  EDITH  KING  HALL.    12mo, 

cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"The  author  is  such  a  bright,  cheery  writer,  that  her  stories  are 
always  acceptable  to  all  who  are  not  confirmed  cynics,  and  her  record  of 
the  adventures  is  as  entertaining  and  enjoyable  aa  we  might  expect."— 
Boston  Courier. 

Adventures  in  Wallypug  Land.    By  Gr.   E.  FARROW. 

18mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  75  cents. 

"These  adventures  are  simply  inimitable,  and  will  delight  boys  and  girls 
of  mature  age,  as  well  as  their  juniors.  No  happier  combination  of 
author  and  artist  than  this  volume  presents  could  be  found  to  famish 
healthy  amusement  to  the  young  folks.  The  book  is  an  artistic  one  in 
every  sense." — Toronto  Mail, 

Fussbudget's   Folks.     A   Story  for  Young  Girls.    By 

ANNA  F.  BURNHAM.    12mo,  cloth,  illustrated,  price  $1.00. 

"Mrs.  Burnhain  has  a  rare  gift  for  composing  stories  for  children.  With 
a  light,  yet  forcible  touch,  she  paints  sweet  and  artless,  yet  natural  and 
•trong,  characters. ' ' — Congxegationalist. 

For  sale  by  all  booksellers,  or  sent  postpaid  on  receipt  of  price  by  th« 
publisher,  A.  L.  BURT,  62-68  Duane  Street,  New  York. 


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